


Blackboards and Broomsticks

by Glisseo



Series: Further Education [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Professor Potter AU, Teacher!Harry AU, other than that relatively true to canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2019-07-03 06:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 94,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15813657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glisseo/pseuds/Glisseo
Summary: At twenty-five, Harry Potter is at a crossroads in his life. He's achieved his dream of being an Auror, but it's not all it's cracked up to be, and with one child and another on the way, he's missing out on precious time with his family. But being an Auror is all he knows how to do - right?So he's in for a surprise when Professor McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts, offers him a job as the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher ...





	1. Daddy Honka

**Author's Note:**

> I have previously written a few works in this universe, where Harry becomes the DADA teacher, but while I wanted to write more, it was hard to think of stand-alone pieces. I love boarding school stories, so I decided to attempt to flesh this out into a full story, which will probably go to Christmas of Harry's first term. There will be other characters - some original - but Harry will be the main focus.  
> 

_June 2005_  
  
_He’s late_ , whispered a little voice in Ginny’s head as she shifted for the tenth time in as many minutes, trying to get comfortable, which was not an easy task when you couldn't lie on your front and there was a fetus turning somersaults inside your uterus that had no compunction whatsoever about pressing on your bladder. Swearing under her breath, she heaved herself out of bed to the bathroom, trying to avoid disturbing James in the next room - she didn't need a wide-awake two year old running around in the middle of the night - and hoping that in the few minutes she was in there, Harry would return and she could stop worrying.

She returned to an empty bedroom just as the clock chimed midnight. No such luck, then.

At their wedding, the wife of one of Harry’s colleagues had warned her of the strife of being an Auror’s spouse. “A lot of long nights lying awake,” she'd said. Her next comment - “and not in the good way!”, accompanied by a lascivious wink - had scarred Ginny so badly at the time that she hadn't given any thought to the first part, but in the years since she'd had cause to think of it often, usually during those long sleepless nights (not in the good way). It hadn't been so bad when she'd been playing for the Harpies and for England and was frequently away herself, but since she'd retired and James had been born, her mind was often free to wander to her husband and whatever he was doing. Whether he was safe.

It wasn't quite the same tonight: she knew he was in the office in London, doing paperwork and preparing for an upcoming trial. But that trial was the result of the hardest months they'd both known in their married life; Harry described it as the worse case he'd ever seen, though he wouldn't disclose the details. Ginny knew that it had been fairly gruesome, involving complex Dark magic he'd had to bring curse breakers in for, and that the longer it went without being solved the harder Harry pushed himself, working multiple days and nights in a row, taking himself off around the country to interview witnesses and suspects, and growing wearier and wearier by the day. Even now he'd caught those responsible, his work wasn't done.

Ginny worried about him, and not just because he was dealing with dangerous Dark magic. She could tell that his heart wasn't quite in it anymore. He didn't talk about the thrill of tracing clues and solving puzzles, as he had done before, from the day he'd proudly donned the scarlet robes. It was getting to him, she reckoned, and she was aware of the guilt he felt from not being at home. He'd almost missed James’s birth, something he'd never forgiven himself for, and now they were expecting their second child he had confided that he often had dreams in which he didn't get there at all for the birth, and when he finally arrived, Ginny turned him away, telling him he wasn't fit to be a father. While she reassured him that she would never do such a thing - “I need your gold, remember?” - she knew he felt deeply uneasy about what he was missing of their family. She wasn't entirely sure it was worth it, either. The job seemed to be draining him. Ron’s departure a few years back had affected him, though he claimed otherwise. “I’m not meant to be having a laugh,” he pointed out, which might have fooled others, but didn't fool Ginny. Not much did when it came to Harry Potter. She could have written a book - nay, _several_ books on Harry Potter, though she suspected he wouldn't want her to reveal much of it to the world, such as what kind of pants he wore - regardless of her insistence that his choice was directly linked to his mood.

No, as his boxers selection had told her over the last few months or so, he just wasn't happy anymore. Perhaps she'd talk to him about it over the weekend, see what he thought. Until then, she simply had to wait.

\- - -

It was quarter past one when Harry arrived home to the little cottage, which sat in darkness on the hillside overlooking the Cornish coast. Upstairs, he nudged the bedroom door open and tried to avoid the squeaky floorboard as he crept in, wand tip alight so he didn't trip over the laundry basket.

“Harry?”

The bedside lamps flickered on. Ginny sat up, not looking particularly sleepy: Harry guessed that she had been waiting for him.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” he said, pulling off his robes hurriedly, suddenly deeply exhausted. He crawled into bed, the weariness in his bones rejoicing as he sank into the mattress, and looked over at Ginny, who was watching him worriedly.

“How's James?”

She knew better than to tell him that James had been asking for him, or that they both missed him; that would only make him feel worse. “Good. He wants a dragon, apparently.”

“Excellent.” Harry lay down properly, groaning as his aching head hit the pillow. The warmly lit bedroom seemed almost a dream after the hours trapped within grey cubicle walls.

And tomorrow … Tomorrow he would have to go back and do it all again. He blinked at the shadowy ceiling, feeling a sudden tightness in his chest.

Beneath the covers, a warm hand slipped into his and squeezed gently. Without turning his head, Harry knew that Ginny would be looking at him, bright brown eyes reading his every movement and fully aware that something was on his mind.

It was a funny thing: he had been feeling this for months - longer, perhaps - but until the words came spilling to the forefront of his mouth, he did not realise that they were true.

“Gin?” he said, emboldened by the warmth of her gaze. “I don't think I want to do this anymore.”

\- - -

Hours earlier and nearly seven hundred miles away, Minerva McGonagall looked at the door closing on her Defence Against the Dark Arts professor - no, _former_ professor - and pressed her lips together tightly. Professor Postlethwaite had been fine - dependable, fairly well-liked - a little uninspiring, perhaps, but still, better than nothing, and now the the final term nearing she was left with finding a suitable replacement swiftly.

The sun had just set over the great craggy mountains visible from her study’s tall windows, the sky a watered-down violet, cool now night was setting in. Minerva lit the lamps and started drafting a notice for a new teacher. It couldn't be just anyone. Since becoming Headmistress, she had worked hard to make Hogwarts the fine school she knew it to be today. Her esteemed deputy, Professor Devereaux, a sensible but kind witch in her fifties, came from a Muggle family and had taught in Muggle schools while caring for her parents. Drawing on their joint experiences they had put time and effort into tightening school procedures and rules, broadening the curriculum, appointing knowledgeable and responsible teachers - Minerva did not like to speak ill of her dear friend Albus, but that had perhaps not been at the forefront of his mind as often as it should have - and altogether creating a school that she was proud to be Headmistress of. The students and staff seemed happy, and so did parents (although she was not generally in the business of pleasing _them_ ).

So whoever took the vacant position would have to be right for the school. Not just anybody would do. Minerva wanted somebody who could inspire the students and bring out the best in them. Someone passionate, hard-working, reliable, conscientious … Quill pausing, she allowed her mind to wander back almost two years, when she had interviewed a palpably nervous but surprisingly articulate Neville Longbottom for the post of Herbology master. He had many qualities, but above all she knew that he cared about his subject and would care equally, if not more, about his students. One could not, she felt strongly, be a good teacher without a decent amount of compassion.

Yes, Longbottom had been a surprise, and perhaps a slight gamble, but he had more than proven himself and was much beloved by the school. His youth and harmless demeanour made him approachable, but his legendary part in the war earned him respect and authority before he'd even opened his mouth - or shown the class his ‘Dumbledore’s Army’ coin.

 _Dumbledore’s Army …_ Now, there was a thought. Perhaps … surely he would say no, but was it worth asking anyway? Certainly he fit all the criteria … Decisively, Minerva reached for a fresh sheet of parchment and began to write.  
  
\- - -

In the end, although Harry and Ginny had agreed to discuss his epiphany properly at the weekend - once the trial was out of the way - the letter beat them to it.

The arrival of the post on Saturday morning was helpfully signalled by James, who hooted loudly from his place at the table, making Harry jump and drop the mug of tea he’d been passing to Ginny. Ignoring her laughter - it had been a very loud and realistic hoot, he thought - he cleared up the mess while she went to let the post owls in, three of them: one bearing the newspapers, one rather bedraggled one - “Luna, probably,” Ginny remarked - and one, sleek and smart, proffering a letter with a very familiar seal.  
  
Harry, repairing the mug with his wand, looked up and saw the distinctive purple wax. Bemused, he glanced over at James, who was making a porridge sculpture.  
  
“Bit early, isn’t it?”  
  
“Well, it’s for you, so bit late actually,” said Ginny, grinning, as she handed it over. “Maybe they found out how little attention you paid in History of Magic and want you to retake it.”  
  
“Ha, ha …”

He tore the envelope open: there was no book list, which had be a good sign, only a single page of Professor McGonagall’s firm, neat hand. “She wants to see me,” he deduced, scanning the few brief lines.

“When?”  
  
“‘At my earliest convenience’. Which I suppose is today.” He looked at Ginny. “I know we said we’d talk …”  
  
“Better find out what she wants first,” Ginny said reasonably. “Oh! James! No! You are the _messiest_ little monster …”  
  
James looked very pleased to hear this. To him, there was no finer compliment.  
  
After breakfast, Harry combed his hair - it couldn’t hurt - and Apparated up to Scotland. The village of Hogsmeade looked pretty in early summer, hanging baskets of sweet-smelling petunias and calibrachoa blooming outside shops; happy shrieks of small children grew louder as he headed off the high street and towards the castle, where the shops were replaced by attractive well-kept cottages and some larger houses.  
  
The grounds had clusters of students milling about, enjoying the rare milder weather. Keen to make this visit as short as possible so he could get back to Ginny and James, he ducked under his Invisibility Cloak before making his way up to the castle.

He gave the password ( _Irn-Bru_ , somewhat confusingly) to the gargoyle and ascended the spiral staircase. His hand hovered in the air momentarily as he raised it to knock - he couldn't help feeling nervous, even though he was fairly sure he hadn't done anything wrong.

Well, not that McGonagall would know about, anyway.

Brushing aside his doubts, he rapped on the door.

“Come in!”

It wasn't the headmistress that Harry's eyes went to first: he hadn't set foot in this office for years, and for a moment he took in how little had changed in the handsome, oak-panelled room. Out of old habit, he looked straight at Dumbledore’s portrait, so clear in his mind still was the association between this place and that unyielding blue-eyed gaze; but the old man’s painted eyes were closed. Harry wasn't sure if he felt disappointment or relief. A mixture of both, maybe?

“Peeves?” McGonagall said sharply, drawing Harry from his musings. He looked at her in confusion, but she wasn't looking at him: her beady eyes were sweeping the room, clearly searching for something amiss.

It took longer than it should have done, really, for the penny to drop, and when it did Harry’s face flamed as he hastened to pull the Invisibility Cloak off.

If McGonagall was startled by his sudden appearance, she hid it remarkably well.

“Sorry,” Harry said awkwardly. “Er - I forgot I had it on.”

“No desire to sign autographs today, then?” she asked drily, gesturing at the chair in front of the desk. Harry sat. “Well, I was going to say it's good to see you …”

This remark had the welcome effect of making Harry feel significantly less like a schoolboy in trouble, so he stopped staring at his knees and sat up straight.

“May I offer you tea?” A steaming pot appeared on the desk. “Or coffee?”

“Er … yeah, tea, please. Thanks.” He took the cup that floated towards him, went to take a sip, realised it was too hot, and clumsily set it back down, splashing some on the wooden surface. Aaaand he was back to stammering schoolboy. Excellent. He tried not to look at his knees again and instead meet McGonagall’s eyes. Her expression was amused.

“Do relax,” she said, sipping her own tea (was the woman’s tongue made of steel?) without flinching. “This isn't a detention. In truth, I asked you here today because I am rather in need of some advice.”

“Advice? What - about security?” Harry asked absently. He was distracted by the fact that he wasn't drinking his tea when she was drinking hers. She might think it rude, when he'd asked for it. Tentatively, he picked it up again and tried it.

And nearly scalded his tongue. _Son of a -_

“Staffing, actually,” said McGonagall, seemingly oblivious to Harry’s plight. “Professor Postlethwaite, our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, is leaving at the end of term, and so I am in search of his replacement.”

“Oh, right.” Harry was in a quandary. He very much wanted to stick his blistered tongue out to cool it, but couldn't help feeling this wouldn't be well received. He settled for adopting an expression akin to that of one sucking a lemon.

He was so focused on his dilemma that he almost missed McGonagall’s next words: “I was wondering if you might be interested in taking the position.”

“Um. What?”

Harry was positive he'd misheard; the scalding of his tongue must have damaged his eardrums. (A voice in his head, probably Ron’s or Ginny’s, reminded him that he was possibly overreacting especially when considering that he had once actually, you know, died). But there was no way the headmistress of Hogwarts had just offered him a _job._ As a _teacher_. Of _humans_.

“Are you interested,” McGonagall repeated slowly, as if talking to a very small, slow child, “in becoming the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?”

“But …” Harry was lost for words. He searched for some, found a few, then lost them again.  
  
“M-me? A – a _teacher?” Shut up_ , he told himself, aware that he was stammering like an idiot. He went to run a hand through his hair, but it was the hand holding the teacup, so he stopped.

“Would you like me to write it down?” McGonagall enquired.

“I don't understand.”

“Well, I would take my quill, and some parchment -”

Wondering if headmistresses were meant to be this sarcastic, Harry shook his head. “No, I mean - _why?”_

“Why?” said McGonagall. “Why offer the job to a highly trained Auror, who taught advanced level defensive magic to other students at the age of fifteen and was largely responsible for the defeat of the most dangerous Dark wizard our world has ever seen?” She raised her eyebrows, rested her clasped hands on the desk. “Why, indeed.”

“Yes, but …”

“I have given this a great deal of thought, and your credentials are not in question,” said McGonagall. “I have no doubts whatsoever that you are more than capable. The only obstacle I anticipated was convincing you to leave the Aurors.”

Fate, some might call it, or kismet, or perhaps, with a sceptical Hermione-ish snort, pure coincidence. Whatever it was, Harry marvelled at the timing.

“I don't think I want to do this anymore,” he'd said to Ginny the other night, and those words had played on his mind ever since, but the key word was _think._ He didn't _think_ he wanted to be an Auror anymore, but what did that really mean? Maybe this was just a rough patch.

_But you haven't really been happy since Ron left._

Ron won't be at Hogwarts, either, he argued with the voice in his head.

_You wouldn't have to work weekends or nights._

That was true, and extremely appealing. Coming home at five burdened with nothing but marking - not the weariness of the horrible things he'd seen that day, knowing he wouldn't be called back at any moment …

As he considered this, an image appeared in his mind, of himself at the front of a classroom full of students, talking animatedly. It was so vivid it surprised him. The Harry in the image, he realised, reminded him starkly of Lupin.

McGonagall's voice broke into his thoughts.

“I realise this is a big decision to make, but you understand that I will require an answer soon. Within the week, really.”

“I … er … OK,” said Harry, feeling slightly dazed. Could he really be considering this? He was an Auror, it was what he'd dreamt of …

But he'd once lain on the floor of this very office having learnt that his fate was sealed, and that he wouldn't be having a future. That was no longer true, and while he'd wanted to be an Auror once, he had always - _always -_ wanted a family. He had a perfect little family now, but it was one he rarely saw. Somewhere along the way, he realised, he'd forgotten what the Mirror of Erised had shown him.

He still needed something to do, something that challenged him and made him feel useful, and - well, could teaching be that thing? _You loved Dumbledore’s Army_ , the voice in his head reminded him.  
  
He risked another sip of tea, and found that it was now just right.

Hermione would no doubt have snorted again, but Harry couldn’t help feeling like it was a sign.  
  
\- - -  
  
Ginny had been preparing salad for dinner, but the knife she’d had chopping vegetables was now precariously hovering point-down in mid-air as she listened to Harry’s recount of his meeting with McGonagall.  
  
“Wow,” she said, when he finished. “That’s … wow.”  
  
“I know,” said Harry, spotting the knife and quickly setting it down on the worksurface. “Funny timing, huh?”  
  
“You’re really thinking about it, then? Leaving the Aurors?”  
  
“I …” Harry sat down at the table, next to James, who was noisily clattering his toy dragons across its surface. “I’m definitely _thinking_ about it, yeah. But -”  
  
“There’s a lot to consider,” Ginny said reasonably, passing him the salad bowl and leaning against the sideboard, arms folded across the top of her bump. “Gawain, for example …”  
  
And the press, thought Harry, who would no doubt have a field day spinning this one. Trying to take his mind off the inevitable Rita Skeeter headline, he picked a piece of cucumber from the bowl and held it out to James.  
  
“No tanks,” said James, giving it only a courtesy glance before turning back to his dragons. “I don’t really honka that.”  
  
“It’s his new all-purpose word,” Ginny explained at Harry’s questioning look. “I’m honka too, apparently.”  
  
“Daddy honka,” said James cheerfully, feeding a piece of cucumber to a Welsh Green.  
  
“I hope that’s a good thing,” said Harry.  
  
“No,” was James’s blunt ruling, as Ginny, looking thoughtful, said, “You know who I reckon you should talk to?”  
  
\- - -  
  
Ron and Hermione lived in a small but neat mews house in Reading, which had been the source of much amusement (at Hermione’s expense) when they’d moved in. Following Ron into the kitchen the next morning, Harry couldn’t help but marvel at the difference between a house with a toddler (toys everywhere; general chaos) and one without (books everywhere; general calm). The kitchen smelled strongly of freshly-baked bread and good coffee, making Harry’s stomach rumble loudly.  
  
“Hungry?” said Ron, grinning. “I was going to make some sandwiches. Hermione’s working upstairs and she’ll forget to eat if I don’t take her something up.”  
  
“Wouldn’t say no,” said Harry. He sniffed appreciatively. “Did you … _make_ bread?”  
  
He sat down and watched, slightly bemused, as Ron, with apparent ease, brewed fresh coffee and sliced bread (homemade!) and assembled sandwiches. One flick of his wand and the cafetiere was in front of Harry, pouring coffee into a mug; another, and a large bag of crisps was emptying itself into a wooden bowl which settled itself in the centre of the round kitchen table. Ron whistled as he worked, and Harry himself felt remarkably content watching him. He thought of this time last week, Sunday morning. Where had he been? Squatting on the ground under his Invisibility Cloak somewhere on the outskirts of Hull, following up on reports of suspicious activity.  
  
“I’ll just take this up to Hermione,” said Ron. “I’ll tell her you’re here, but she’s pretty stuck into this new legislation so don’t be offended if she doesn’t come down straight away -”  
  
“It’s fine, I know she’s busy. And - it’s really you I wanted to talk to, anyway.”

Ron looked surprised, but pleased. “All right, then. Back in two ticks.”  
  
When he returned he passed Harry a sandwich and took a seat across from him.  
  
“So ...”  
  
“So.” Harry tried to think of how to begin, and took a bite of his sandwich to give himself longer to think. “This is really good,” he said, trying to hide his surprise, and Ron’s ears reddened at the compliment. Harry put down his sandwich and started again. “I got a job offer yesterday.”  
  
“What? Where?”

“Hogwarts. The Defence teacher's leaving, and ... McGonagall asked me.” Harry pulled a face. “Can you believe that?”

“Er - yeah,” said Ron, the _duh_ implicit. “You’re a great teacher, and who has more experience than you? So what did you say?”

“Well, that's the thing.” Harry looked into his mug, then back up at his friend. “How did you know you could leave the Aurors? I mean - how did you know it was the right thing to do?”

He remembered his astonishment when Ron had told him he was leaving. Now, seeing him happy and relaxed, he could see why, and God, he wanted that himself.

Ron seemed to be thinking about it.

“I hadn't been happy for a while, I s’pose,” he said eventually. “But I kind of felt too ashamed to admit it, you know? Like it meant I couldn’t hack it.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I get that.”

“Ginny’s been worried about you,” said Ron. Harry hadn’t been expecting that. “She hasn’t said much, but I can tell. Look, mate, there's nothing wrong with admitting that your heart's not in it anymore and you'd rather do something else.”

Harry struggled to voice the thoughts swirling around in his head.

“I feel … I feel like,” he said, “I should do it even if I don't enjoy it, 'cause it's what I'm meant to do, y'know?”

“Because you're Harry Potter,” Ron surmised, shrewdly.

“People have these expectations -”

“Sod them.”

“But you know what I -”

“Course I do,” said Ron, and he did know - growing up with five older brothers, all brilliant in some way, and being the best friend of _the Chosen One._ If anyone knew about expectations, it was Ron.

“It took me ages to admit that I wanted a change because I was so worried about what everyone would think, but now I've done it, and I'm happy … I don't give a toss what anyone else thinks about it. You don't _owe_ anyone anything. Do what makes you happy.”  
  
\- - -  

James was asleep, having worn himself out getting out of bed every time one of his parents tried to get him in, and the cottage was now quiet and still. Harry sat at the small desk in the lounge, a blank sheet of parchment in front of him, and felt a curious warmth spread through his chest even as he picked up a quill.

_Dear Professor,_

_I would like to accept your offer …_

 


	2. A Particularly Recalcitrant Goblin

The days and weeks that followed passed in a blur of to-do lists with all those tiresome Grown Up things that must be done when one changes job. Harry was not often a fan of Hermione's predilection for lists, but even he had to admit they came in handy at times like these.

Breaking the news to his boss, the head of the Auror department, had been top of Hermione's list.

“You have to tell him first - it'd be awful if he heard it from someone else,” she told Harry, who knew she was right and disliked the fact wholeheartedly. As certain as he was that he'd made the right decision, he didn't relish the prospect of officially leaving the Aurors. Ron assured him that it was fine - “best just to get it over with” - but Harry felt distinctly nauseous at the thought of sitting down with his boss and telling him that he was leaving.

“Can't I just slip a note under the door?” he asked.

Hermione looked disapproving. “You have to be professional about this, Harry.”

“A nice card, then?” said Harry, hopefully.

He respected the Head Auror, Gawain Robards, though they hadn't always seen eye to eye. When Harry had first joined the Aurors they'd clashed over his inclination to follow his instincts rather than protocol, and his repeated failure to inform Robards what he was up to. As far as Harry saw it, when it came to telling adults things, usually one of three things happened: the adults in question would have told him no; they wouldn't have believed there was a problem; or there were no adults to tell. As a result, he'd got used to simply doing things without telling anyone, which - as he complained to Ginny - had generally tended to work out for him, but didn't seem to fly with Robards. Over the years, though, they'd reached an unspoken compromise; Harry would give at least a courtesy nod to protocol before doing anything, and if he got the results, Robards would turn a blind eye to whatever methods he'd used. Harry had come to appreciate the fact that Robards had never treated him differently because of his fame, and although the man was never one for outlandish praise, Harry often earned his approving nods.

It was odd, but later he struggled to recall much of the conversation in which he told Robards of his departure. What he remembered most vividly of that day was looking at the grey walls of his cubicle moments before the meeting, at the stack of cases on his desk, and feeling oddly detached, already, from the place he had worked in - and dreamed of working in - for years.

Afterwards, recounting the conversation to Ginny, he managed only a vague recollection of how he had tried to explain, awkwardly and very incoherently, his feelings of inner conflict; how he missed his family; how he felt, in his heart, that this wasn't right anymore. That the overwhelming sensation from Robards’ somewhat begrudging acceptance was relief was in itself an indication of that fact. He could tell Robards didn't understand, not really - but he listened, and when Harry had finished he sat back in his chair with a resigned expression. The next part, which Harry did remember, made Ginny squeal.

“I don't suppose this will change your mind,” he'd said, “but I might as well tell you that I intended to name you as my successor when I retire. Not for a few years, but -”

For a moment Harry had been struck with an image of himself behind that desk; his name on the door. Head of the Auror Department.

More paperwork. More commitment. Longer hours.

“No,” he said. “It doesn't change anything. Er, sorry,” he'd added lamely, which had, at the very least, raised a smile from Robards.

Ginny squeezed his hand when she had heard the story.

“That can't have been easy.”

Harry looked at her, soft in the midsummer evening light pouring into the cottage, and thought that actually, when it came to what he was gaining, it was one of the easiest things he'd ever done.

Robards had agreed to keep his departure secret until the end of July, when he would leave officially to give him time to prepare for the new term; technically, this meant Harry didn’t need to tell anyone else until then, but he decided to share the news with his in-laws anyway. It did not go as smoothly as he’d hoped, not because of anyone’s objections, but mostly because when he and Ginny stood up at Sunday dinner and announced that they had news, everyone just looked confusedly at Ginny’s bump. 

“Well, yes, we know, dears,” said Molly, smiling indulgently at them. “More gravy, anyone?”  
  
“Not that,” said Ginny crossly. “DIFFERENT news.”  
  
George looked scandalised. “Don’t tell me _Witch Weekly’s_ got it right. You’re not splitting up, are you?”  
  
“No, but it’s nice to know that you read _Witch Weekly_ ,” said Harry. A well-aimed pea pinged off his forehead. “It’s me, actually. I’ve got a new job.”  
  
Molly gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “Head Auror! Oh, Harry! Oh, this is wonderful -”  
  
“... Er,” said Harry, thrown. He hadn’t expected this, either. He glanced at Ginny, who was pulling a face, and then at Ron, who just mouthed _‘awkward’_.   
  
“Not … not Head Auror, no …” He wondered whether to disclose that he had been offered that job, sort of, but given the actuality he thought that might come as too much of a disappointment to Molly. He hadn’t realised anyone had even considered him as Head Auror material; it was quite nice, he supposed, but did rather cast an unflattering shadow on the real news.   
  
“I’m going to teach. At Hogwarts.”  
  
He didn't know it, but his announcement was a welcome surprise to most of the family, like Molly, who worried about his time in the field and the target painted on his head by anyone involved with the Death Eaters and the other people he'd put in prison. Nonetheless, he felt the genuine warmth of everyone's responses, congratulating him and telling him how wonderful he would be, and it was heartening.

McGonagall had owled him a copy of the overall curriculum, helpfully including his predecessor’s plans, and in his spare time he pored over them with Ginny, talking about ideas for his own lessons, scribbling rough plans on scrap parchment. By the time his birthday rolled around, he was feeling distinctly more excited than worried, although it was still that sort of nervous anticipation where you feel jittery and on edge most of the time. 

(“In a good way,” he assured Ginny. “Although it’s also sort of like when you really need the loo, but ... all the time.”  
  
“I know the bloody feeling,” said Ginny.)

There would be a dinner at the Burrow to celebrate properly, but Harry was perfectly content with spending his actual birthday at home, just him and Ginny and James, who woke him by climbing on his face and singing _Happy Birdie,_ a song of his own crafting, loudly and extremely tunelessly. There was probably something quite sad about wanting to spend your twenty-fifth birthday at home in your slippers, enjoying a nice breakfast and having time to read the papers cover to cover, but Harry didn’t worry about it. He was sure George would tell him later, anyway.   
  
They had put James to bed, and were thinking about opening a nice bottle of wine (“steady on,” he could hear George saying) when -  
  
BOOM.   
  
The little cottage seemed to tremble; a vase fell off the mantlepiece, but didn’t smash. Harry, tensing, drew his wand. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.   
  
BOOM.   
  
They knocked again. Ginny, reaching for her own wand, looked tersely at Harry. “Are you expecting anyone?”  
  
He wasn’t, but it was a fair question. Bill and Harry had worked together to set up protective charms on the cottage so that only those who had been previously invited inside could get past the front gate; post only arrived from people who knew the address, which was a well-guarded secret. Had the charms broken down? Was someone _really_ trying to kill him on his birthday? Even for him, that was a new one.  
  
“You stay here,” he said to Ginny. “I’ll go.”  
  
He edged down the hall, wand raised. Through the glass panels of the door, he could see a shadowy figure.   
  
A very tall, wide shadowy figure, twice the size of a normal human man.   
  
Lowering his wand, Harry pulled open the door and said, “you know, we have a doorbell.”  
  
Hagrid looked at it in surprise. “So yeh do,” he said. “Ah well. Hope yeh don’ mind me dropping in -”  
  
“Course not,” said Harry. He gestured for Hagrid to follow him inside, which he did with some difficulty, bending almost double to duck the cottage’s low ceiling. He squeezed himself down the hall and into the living room, where Ginny, seeing him, let out a sigh of relief.  
  
“Hagrid! You scared us!”  
  
“Sorry abou’ tha’,” Hagrid said guiltily. “Jus’ wanted to come and say happy birthday to this one - made yeh a cake, yeh see.”  
  
Harry took the proffered box with a smile.   
  
“Just like old times.”  
  
“An’,” said Hagrid, “ter give yeh this.”  
  
From one of the many pockets of his great overcoat he drew a yellowish envelope. Harry looked at it bemusedly.  
  
“Hagrid,” he said, “I already know I’m a wizard. We did that part.” Out of curiosity’s sake, he glanced at the green ink on the front. _Professor H. Potter_ was the first line. A funny little jolt went through him.   
  
“Ah, well, this is just ter tell yeh abou’ the first staff meeting an’ the like,” Hagrid admitted, “but I asked the Headmistress if I could deliver it ter yeh. For old time’s sake. Although,” he added, “I reckon tha’ old hut mighta been more roomy. Yeh’ve not thought o’ getting a bigger place, now yeh’ve got the little one on the way?”  
  
“Oh, a hundred times,” said Ginny ruefully, “but we’ve just never got round to it. We really could do with somewhere bigger, though.”  
  
“Have yeh looked in Hogsmeade?” said Hagrid. “Some o’ them houses at the top o’ the high street, yeh’d like them. Nice big gardens, an’ yeh wouldn’t have ter worry about no Muggles seeing brooms an’ the like.”  
  
“Ooh,” said Ginny, eyes lighting up. “Ooh, that might be good - we should have a look. You could walk to work,” she remarked to Harry with some amusement. His dislike of Apparating was well-known, and he didn’t like the Floo much better, either. He would have happily flown from Cornwall to London every day if it wouldn’t take so long and be ‘a major breach of the Statute of Secrecy’, blah blah blah, as Hermione reminded him whenever he mentioned it.  
  
“Worth a try,” he agreed.   
  
\- - -   
  
The house at the end of the high street, with a small slate sign on the gate reading _I_ _nglenook,_ sold itself at once. The chirpy estate agent, whom Harry liked immediately due to the fact that she showed no signs of recognising her clients other than an initial flash of surprise, enthused at length about the spacious rooms and high ceilings and mountain views as she showed them around the house, but it wasn't necessary: Harry could feel it, somewhere in his gut, a bounding excitement mixed with a sense of belonging, of _home._ Even though the place wasn't furnished, he could see them in the living room as the nights drew in, warmed by the fire; could see James and the new baby growing up in the bedrooms above; could see their life in this place.

Ginny squeezed his hand tightly as she asked the estate agent a question, and her face told him that she felt the same.

After that, there were more visits to the bank and more papers to be signed, in a process that would have probably taken far longer, even Ginny had to concede, without Fleur, who flounced into their first meeting at Gringotts and announced somewhat cryptically that she would “take care of eet”. And she did, pushing transactions and paperwork through remarkably quicker than the goblins had done when they had bought the cottage. This was, Harry felt, largely due to the goblins’ lingering ill will about the whole robbery and dragon stealing incident, for which he couldn't really blame them, but he was relieved when Fleur swooped in and took charge. The fact that she only made one barbed comment - “I am just so glad you are leaving zat little place, ‘ow you could ‘ave lived there I do not know” - was, as he pointed out to Ginny, definite growth; for her part, Ginny managed not to roll her eyes at all, and Harry even caught her looking impressed as Fleur handled a particularly recalcitrant goblin with ease.

Then the cottage was sold, and they packed up their first home, where James had taken his first steps. It wasn't sad, not really, not when they were moving on to something better: but for Harry it had already been something better, the place where he had made his own home and started his own family and started to believe for the first time that the future was his.

Well, it was the future now, and there was so much to come, and how he looked forward to seeing it unfold in their new home. There were small, constant leaps of joy these days, just little things, like Ginny’s delight at having a home office, where she could write during her maternity leave from the Harpies. She had loved that when they were expecting James, dashing off pieces for the Prophet and the Quibbler and the Quidditch magazines, even starting to pull together ideas for a novel. Her face had lit up at the sight of the small study, which had a view of Hogwarts. “I'll be able to work, and look over at you working,” she told Harry, who could scarcely imagine being happier. 

  
\- - -  
  
“ _POTTER’S BREAKDOWN?_   
  
_He was regarded as the Ministry of Magic’s rising star, the golden boy of the Auror Department, tipped to become Head by the age of thirty. This week, however, has brought the startling announcement that Potter has quit his job as one of the Ministry’s top Aurors and is set to take up a position as Hogwarts School’s newest Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher._   
  
_The role was famously cursed for many years, seeing a number of witches and wizards take on the job for only a year before leaving - or worse. Potter’s predecessors include Remus Lupin, the late werewolf father of Potter’s own godson, and ex-Ministry official Dolores Umbridge, imprisoned by Potter in 1999 for crimes against Muggleborns. Since the defeat of Lord Voldemort, the curse appears to have been lifted, with Egbert Postlethwaite holding the post from the school’s re-opening to his retirement this month. Now Headmistress Minerva McGonagall - whose relationship with Albus Dumbledore was always the source of great interest - has elected to poach Harry Potter away from the Aurors. Or did she? No doubt many will be wondering how a teaching post, in a school known for putting its staff and students at risk, could be of more appeal than the undoubtedly more lucrative and glamorous career of an Auror. Could there be something else at play here?”_   
  
“Let me guess,” Harry broke in. “I’m mentally unstable, and becoming a teacher proves that.”   
  
“Pretty much,” said Ginny, folding the paper over and tossing it aside. “It also says you might be impotent.”   
  
“What does my impotence have to do with anything?”   
  
“Obviously,” said Ginny, “I’m pregnant again, and it can’t be yours - because your wand’s just shooting sparks - so you’re terribly depressed, and that’s why you’re going into teaching. To become more depressed.”   
  
“Oh, obviously.” Harry grinned. Today was the last unofficial day of his holiday, as in the morning he would make the five minute walk up to Hogwarts for the first staff meeting. It had taken a few gruelling weeks, helped by friends and family, but they were finally set up in the new house, which was taking some getting used to; aside from a few weeks at a time at the Burrow, Harry had never lived in a magical house before, and he was still getting caught out. He had spent half an hour staring at the ceiling where he’d been told the entrance to the attic should be, before Ginny had come along and simply asked it nicely, whereupon a trapdoor had appeared.   
  
He wasn’t surprised that the news of his departure from the Aurors had made the papers, and was even less surprised that Rita Skeeter had turned it into an opportunity to make it sound like his life was in tatters. He didn’t really care - the people that mattered to him had supported his decision wholeheartedly. Just the other day he’d had a pint with Neville, who was flatteringly over the moon to have Harry joining him on the staff. “ _And_ I won’t be the youngest anymore!” he’d exclaimed, at the end of a long list of reasons why it was the greatest news ever.   
  
“I’m _one day_ younger than you,” Harry pointed out.   
  
“It counts,” said Neville, making Harry wonder if he should expect some sort of hazing ritual or horrible pranking based around his age.   
  
Now the start of term loomed, the real jitters were setting in; from the _can I really be a teacher_ nerves to the _my spelling isn’t great, does that matter when I mark their work?_ worries that hounded him in the moments before sleep. Ginny, his constant comfort, maintained that it was perfectly normal to feel nervous: “You’re starting something new,” she reminded him, every time he woke up at three in the morning fretting about whether his hair was too untidy for a teacher. “But change is good. And this change is going to be great for you, I know it.”   
  
\- - -  
  
Gabe hated change.   
  
Change ruined everything. Change like when his dad left, even though he didn’t really remember it, just remembered his mum crying a lot and the new council house and getting into more trouble at school, until the headteacher would come in and murmur something to the one who’d told him off and they’d look at him with this sort of pitying understanding. Oh, well. His dad’s left, of course he’s kicking off.   
  
What would happen if he kicked off at this new school? He’d probably be turned into a frog, or something. Not that anyone would care. His mum certainly wouldn’t miss him, that was for sure, not if she was happy to ship him off to some mad place in God knows where for months at a time. Well, fine. He wouldn’t even come back at Christmas, not if she didn’t want him.   
  
Even though it was a break from school and everything, the summer holidays usually tended to drag a bit; Gabe’s mum didn’t have much money to spare for day trips and holidays and all the other things his friends did - they had a week in Skegness with his nan and the rest of the time he just kicked around the house or the park while his mum was at work. Occasionally he had to look after his little sister Ruby, which meant he went to play football with his friends while she tagged along and complained that he wasn’t playing with her.   
  
But now he was desperate for the holidays _not_ to end, they seemed to be flying by. Suddenly spending hours on end playing on his rubbish old Playstation (not even a Playstation 2, and they’d been out for _ages_ ) was all he wanted to do, because in hardly any time at all, he’d be off in some _stupid_ mad school without his friends or mum or even Ruby. And he hated lying to his friends - none of them could understand why he wasn’t coming to the local comp with them. It wasn’t like he even had a good excuse, either. The woman who’d come to see him, the one who’d told him all this stuff that had changed _everything_ , had suggested they say he’d got a scholarship. Well, that was a load of rubbish, because anyone who knew Gabe knew that would never happen. In the end his mum had invented a rich old great aunt who wanted to support his education, though that didn’t explain why he’d gone to the primary school he had, which had been on special measures for years.   
  
He’d done all right, though - OK, he hadn’t done brilliantly in his SATs, but his teachers always said he’d do better if he could be bothered, and - well, he couldn’t. What was the point? Especially now, when he was going to a school which probably didn’t give a toss about SATs. He didn’t even know _what_ he’d be learning, if it wasn’t maths and science and stuff he might not have liked, but at least knew what they were. Though it didn’t really matter. He’d decided that almost straight away, after that woman had left and his mum had got over her shock and said that they couldn’t even tell Ruby, because she was too young to keep the secret. When his life had started turning upside down. He’d decided, then, that he would go along with it for a bit - he’d let that woman take he and his mum to that bizarre place to buy all sorts of mad rubbish he’d never heard of (and Ruby had cried, when they went down to London without her) - and he’d go to the school, but he wasn’t going to stay. No way. There’d been some sort of mistake, he was convinced, and he was going to prove it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revisiting being an eleven year old in 2005/6 is SO much fun for me. As I said, original characters aren't going to play a huge role, but I wanted to include a student's perspective here, and they'll be important for Harry, too. 
> 
> 'BOOM. [...] Someone was outside, knocking to come in. [...] BOOM. They knocked again.' - are borrowed directly from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Chapter 4, which I do not own.


	3. Fickle, Forgetful and Illogical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three! Personally I am amazed I've written this so quickly - I am not one of those people who (sensibly) plans ahead. I just write whatever comes into my head and hope it makes sense ...

  
“Are you sure you’ll be OK?” Hermione had asked at one point. “Going back?”  
  
He’d have been lying if he had said the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Hogwarts was the first place Harry had ever felt at home, but so much had happened there, and he did worry, sometimes, that he wouldn’t be able to walk down the corridors without hearing the screams, or sit in the Great Hall without seeing -  
  
Well. He tried to forget.  
  
As often was the case, he found what he needed in Ginny, who had been at school for the horrors of the Death Eater’s rule and been in the midst of it all and still gone back, months later. She’d been restless and unsettled the whole year and not done as well in her NEWTs as she could have (“I don’t need them to play Quidditch, anyway,” she’d said, scanning the results sheet with a breezy smile that covered, mostly, the slight wobble in her voice); but she’d gone back. That was the important thing.  
  
She and Harry talked til the small hours on those nights when he was plagued with these thoughts and the baby was making it hard for her to sleep. Ginny didn’t like to live in the past, but she was observant and reflective, and she had a way of putting things that made them seem clearer than Harry would have thought possible. It was time, she thought, for him to find in Hogwarts a new place: not a home, not a battleground, but something else. Something new.  
  
“And I think you will,” she said, expression thoughtful in the semi-dark, hand resting absently on her stomach, his hand over hers. “It just might take time.”  
  
Time, the great healer, that was what they said, wasn’t it? Harry knew, and Ginny knew, that scars never fade completely, but the wounds that brought them do stop hurting. You’ll think of them and feel the memory of unimaginable pain, but it’s bearable. You can live with it. You live _through_ it.  
  
“It won’t be the same,” Hermione warned, in a different conversation, a different time.  
  
“It won’t ever be the same,” said Ginny, her eyes fixed on some point in the distance; Harry thought that for once she might be somewhere else, in the Chamber, maybe, or in the … _no, don’t._ “But that doesn’t mean it can’t be good, does it?”  
  
The students had yet to arrive when Harry made his way down to the Great Hall for the Welcome Feast. He’d spent the afternoon in his classroom, mostly, putting the finishing touches to it, chatting with teachers and ghosts who passed through (literally, in the case of the ghosts). The room, one on the second floor that he didn’t remember from his time, had the feeling of a place lying dormant, waiting: it needed fresh ink stains on the desks, shoes scuffing and squeaking on the floor. His office was one floor up, and as Ginny had somehow predicted, looked over to Hogsmeade; on colder days, he’d be able to see smoke curling from their chimney. Bill and Fleur had given him a beautiful rug from Morocco to put down, all vibrant reds and oranges, and Neville had donated several plants, none of which, he assured Harry, were dangerous. _Or_ containing Stinksap. (Harry checked).  
  
Evening settled over the grounds, and the castle felt quiet and expectant as he headed to the Hall. It was a distinctly odd experience to be taking his seat at the top table. He sat next to Neville and tried to remember the names of the other staff, whom he’d been introduced to at the first staff meeting. There was McGonagall in the middle, of course, and next to her was the deputy headmistress, Henrietta Devereaux, a very elegant witch in her fifties who had welcomed Harry warmly in a measured voice that had the instant effect of making him feel remarkably calm, something he imagined would be quite handy in the classroom. On her left was Bernice Bloom, the head of Potions, who waved cheerily at Harry as he came in; looking at her rosy face, he couldn’t imagine anyone more different to Snape, which was vaguely reassuring. One of the Charms teachers, on the other hand - and in a wonderful touch of irony - was definitively _un_ charming, a tall thin wizard with dark, watchful eyes, whom Harry thought might be called Professor Heyes.  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” Neville muttered in his ear as he filled Harry’s goblet. “There’s far too many, you’ll learn them as you go. Just smile at everyone and you’ll be fine.”  
  
This seemed like quite good advice, and did make him feel better, so he sipped his drink and tried to relax. Without the students here yet, it was easy to take in the hall, and he found that as it was now - silverware gleaming in the lights of a thousand candles floating above the long tables, all laid out beneath the great enchanted ceiling, bewitched to show the sky above - he was remembering not the terrible scenes of the battle, but the first time he had set foot in the castle, walking nervously behind Ron, wondering what lay in store for him. In the years that followed, he reckoned, he’d been too busy worrying about things (Voldemort, and Snape, and Malfoy, and Voldemort, and did he mention Voldemort?) to just enjoy being there, in the most magical place he had ever seen. Some of the tension he’d been holding in his shoulders eased at the realisation that Ginny had been right: it was good to be back.  
  
\- - -

For most of the train journey Gabe tried not to think about his mum. He absolutely was not going to cry, and whenever the thought of the train moving away from the platform where she stood wandered uninvited into his head he felt a fierce prickling in his nose, so he determinedly focused on other things. Which wasn't all that easy, when you were stuck on a train for hours and had nothing at all to do.

He didn't really notice how other people were entertaining themselves, nor did he care; he had squished himself into a corner of one compartment, where he'd been joined by two older boys, sixth formers probably, who'd given him a cursory glance then elected to ignore him. That suited Gabe, who didn't plan on making any friends, or really feel like talking much. The boys immediately launched into conversation punctuated with words he didn't understand, like Quidditch and Hufflepuff, so much so that he could only follow snippets. After a while he gave up and leaned his head against the window, face wedged uncomfortably against the glass, watching fields and towns fly by, trying very hard to think of nothing.  
  
“... see in the paper? It said _Harry Potter_ is the new DADA teacher.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s the Prophet though, isn’t it? There’s no way that’s true.”  
  
“I dunno …”  
  
“You want to bet?”  
  
“Five sickles says he’s there, then.”  
  
Gabe’s head was vibrating, and it hurt. He opened his eyes (when had they been closed?) and saw that dusk had fallen outside; it was impossible to tell where they were. Inside the compartment, lamps had been lit, and the two boys were now wearing the same uniform Gabe had folded (well, his mum had folded) in a carrier bag. He’d been told he should change on the train, but not when, so she’d thought that was easier than packing it in his trunk.  
  
One of the boys, noticing him, nodded to the darkened window.  
  
“We’re nearly there,” he told Gabe. “You should put your robes on.”  
  
Gabe rubbed at his neck, stiff from sleeping awkwardly, and tried to say ‘thanks’, but couldn’t quite manage it. He grabbed his carrier bag and shuffled off to the toilets to change. He looked in the mirror afterwards, hardly noticing the strange black robes - he looked pale and nauseous, which was about right, and his eyes looked sort of desperate, staring back at him as if he could will something to happen that would stop this all from being real.  
  
The train carried on.  
  
\- - -  
  
“You know that I will have to introduce you,” McGonagall had warned Harry, a few days earlier. “It will only bring about more mindless tittle-tattle if I don’t.”  
  
Slightly thrown by the fact that she had used the word ‘tittle-tattle’, Harry had reluctantly agreed. “But you don’t have to say much, do you?” he’d pleaded. “Just - just the basics.”  
  
As far as he was concerned, his greatest achievements in life were marrying Ginny and surviving to the age he had: not because of the dangerous opponents he’d faced, but because of all the really stupid things he’d done - he could have cut out all the Voldemort stuff and _still_ been lucky to reach twenty-five. He hadn’t been pleased to be contacted about being on a Chocolate Frog card, but agreed on two conditions: firstly, that fifty percent of every sale went to charity, and secondly, that the description glossed over the ‘Chosen One guff’, as Ron put it, and focused on his _real_ accomplishments. They’d reached an agreement eventually, even though the Chocolate Frog people had refused to include the line ' _H_ _arry Potter is best known for being the husband of Holyhead Harpies and England star Ginny Weasley’._  
  
He supposed that wasn’t really relevant to teaching, but neither was the rest of it, in his opinion. It didn’t make any difference what he thought, though: people would think what they wanted to, and most of them would see him as _Harry Potter_ \- you know, _him_ , the one that did all that stuff! This years’ seventh years, if his maths was right, would have been about ten when it had all kicked off (that was another Ron-ism), so he wondered if they would have the same reaction as older people. For a moment or two, before the carriages arrived, he imagined a happy scenario where none of them recognised him, and there was only a mild murmur at his name.  
  
In hindsight, this was optimistic. A beautiful but short-lived fantasy, it was shattered within minutes of the hundreds of black pointed hats streaming into the hall; at first engaged in conversation, some then began to look around, take stock of the top table, and Harry, fiddling awkwardly with his goblet, felt eyes boring into him like Uncle Vernon’s drills.  
  
Perhaps he should have been used to it now, but he never found it any less uncomfortable. The whispers might not have reached his ears if he hadn’t been so attuned to them: _Potter … that’s him … said in the paper. Harry Potter. Harry Potter. Harry Potter!_  
  
“Great match last week, wasn’t it?” Neville said loudly, topping up his drink. “Real corker.”  
  
“Which one?” said Harry, confused, but glad for the distraction. “I didn’t think you followed Quidditch.”  
  
“‘Course I do. It was the, er, Bees.”  
  
“Wasps?”  
  
“That’s what I said, yes,” said Neville, still talking at an unnatural volume, so loud that the hiss of whispers was drowned - _oh._  
Harry felt a fierce rush of affection for his friend. There hadn’t been a Wasps match last week, nor would Neville had had any clue if there was. “It was a nailbiter,” he agreed, shifting in his seat so he wasn’t facing the other tables.  
  
“Great goal from … er … Quaffleson,” Neville continued, with such apparent sincerity that Harry burst out laughing.  
  
By the time the first years arrived, led in by Professor Devereaux, he felt much lighter, and he didn’t know it, but some of those first years, trembling from head to toe, glanced up at the staff table as they passed and saw a young teacher with untidy hair and a face creased by laughter and felt a little bit better.  
  
He tried not to stare, aware of how very much he hated it, but he watched them curiously, some worried, some clearly brimming with excitement. They wore their emotions all over their faces as the tattered old Sorting Hat sang its song, trepidation and intrigue and everything in between.  
  
“Arnott, Lydia!” called Professor Devereaux.  
  
The thing about the Sorting, Harry remembered after the first ten, was that it seemed exciting at first, but actually was rather dull to watch. His stomach rumbled beneath the table as “Hutchinson, Gabriel!” came forwards and proceeded to take well over five minutes to be Sorted.  
  
“Hatstall,” Neville murmured.  
  
_Hurry up_ _and decide, then_ , Harry willed the Hat. He felt thoroughly relieved when it finally settled on Gryffindor, but to his surprise Gabriel Hutchinson, removing the hat, didn’t look relieved at all. He looked - what was the best way to describe it? Sullen, Harry thought. His face was set in a mutinous expression as he sloped off to the Gryffindor table, where he sat a little way apart from the nearest students applauding him and didn’t speak to anyone.  
  
Interesting. Black sheep perhaps, he mused, thinking of Sirius, although a quick scan of the other tables didn’t reveal anyone looking unduly bothered by the boy being put in Gryffindor.  
  
At last (at long, long last) Professor Devereaux carried the Hat away, and McGonagall rose to her feet. Immediately Harry stopped feeling hungry and started feeling nervous. He heard her say “A very warm welcome to all our new students, and welcome back to those returning”, and promptly tuned out to focus on panicking internally. Some might say he hadn’t learned anything in History of Magic, but that wasn’t true at all: those lessons had taught him the art of looking like he was listening while not paying the slightest bit of attention. It was a great skill that had served him well at formal Ministry events, and indeed with his brother-in-law Percy. (Percy was not nearly as insufferable as he had once been, but Harry struggled to describe him these days as anything other than ‘nice but dull’.  
_Really_ dull.)  
  
“As most of you will be aware, our Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Postlethwaite, left us at the end of last term,” McGonagall was saying when he tuned back in. “We wish him well in his retirement, and we are pleased to welcome Professor Potter to the post. Professor Potter comes to us from the Auror Department and brings with him a great deal of experience, which will be a tremendous asset to the school.”  
  
And that was that - it was over. Harry’s face felt very warm as everyone applauded. Some students clearly had no idea who he was and were looking confused by the reaction of others, but no one had booed, which was nice, and no one had tried to kill him. It was the small things, really, but he still appreciated not being killed at any given time. It was up there with crispy roast potatoes and a good treacle tart on his list of things he was grateful for, and the feast had all three, so by the time it was over and the students were dismissed to their dormitories he felt very mellow indeed. Perhaps a little too mellow, as he tried to follow the Gryffindor prefects up the stairs until Neville found him and steered him towards the front doors instead.  
  
“Trust me, you don’t want to go up there,” he advised. “See you tomorrow - we’ll catch up at break, OK?”  
  
Tomorrow. What was tomorrow? Ah, teaching.  
  
… Ah.  
Teaching.  
  
\- - -  
Things were getting steamy in the Department of Magical Sports and Games, but Ginny couldn't seem to concentrate, reading the same line three times before she realised what she was doing. She’d had cause to work with the real-life Department, anyway, and she’d never come across anyone remotely like Thaddeus, the chiselled dream hunk currently breaching his employee contract by spending work hours in the supply cupboard with Penelope from the Ludicrous Patents Office.  
  
The bedroom door opened, and she set the book aside, tapping the page with her wand to mark her place.  
  
“How did it go?”  
  
It was amazing really, how things could change. Only a few months earlier she’d been lying awake waiting for her husband to return, worrying because she knew he wasn’t happy. And here they were, hundreds of miles - literally - from that place; she was no longer worried and he, coming in with a smile on his face, was no longer unhappy - it was that sort of smile which is involuntary, the kind where something great has happened and you simply can’t help yourself from grinning ear to ear.

“You were right,” Harry told her simply, pulling his robes off and Banishing them to the wardrobe. He disappeared to brush his teeth, and came back in an old t-shirt and his boxers. Ginny regarded them with some satisfaction. Snitches. Good. He was definitely happy, then.  
  
“Excuse me, madam,” she heard Harry say. He slid into bed beside her with a mischievous grin. “Are you staring at my bum?”  
  
“Just confirming something,” she said evasively. “So it went well, then?”  
  
“It did. But I’m bricking it about tomorrow,” he confessed, wriggling closer to her. Somehow his feet were never cold. He was always very smug about it - or at least he was until Ginny wedged her freezing ones between his legs. That tended to shut him up.  
  
It was harder to do with Bump in the way, lying on her back, so she leant her head against his shoulder and nestled into his side instead. “You can’t expect it to go perfectly,” she told his shoulder. “Anyone would be nervous.”  
  
“But what if -”  
  
“Go on. What if ...?”  
  
“Well,” said Harry. She couldn’t see his face from her position, but from his voice she could tell that his expression would be amusing. “What if, for one thing, they all laugh at me?”  
  
“Then you be Scary Harry, and let them know that is a big mistake. Next.”  
  
“What if I forget absolutely everything I know?”  
  
“You’ve got a plan for a reason, and if you lose that, then make it up. They’re not going to know.”  
  
Harry’s rumbling laugh sent reverberations through her body. “That is _excellent_ advice.”  
  
“Harry, I’m serious.” She twisted to look up at him. “Yes, there are lots of things that could go wrong, but it was the same in the Aurors. Things went wrong, you thought on your feet, you dealt with it. At the end of the day, this has got to be _slightly_ less dangerous.”  
  
“You are talking about Hogwarts, right?”  
  
“Well, at least you’re smiling again,” Ginny said, settling back against him. “I don’t find you nearly as attractive when you’re being a grumpy guts.”  
  
“Now that’s just rude.”  
  
“Can you turn the light out?”  
  
“Grumpy guts? Really?”  
  
Harry took off his glasses and flicked his wand to extinguish the lamps. In the darkness, Ginny found his hand and squeezed it.  
  
“You’re going to be _brilliant_ ,” she murmured to his silhouette, just visible in the sliver of moonlight that stole through the curtains. The angular lines of his profile didn’t reveal much, but she thought he might have smiled. His warm fingers wrapped around hers and squeezed back, the cool metal of his wedding ring brushing against her skin.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“What else am I here for?” she joked, not expecting him to turn, wrap an arm around her, bump and all, pressing his nose to the crook of her neck, inhaling.  
  
“ _Ev_ _erything."_  
  
\- - -  
The lights went out across the castle, but not everybody was asleep. Gabe sat on the windowsill, cold and uncomfortable, feeling very small and alone, and very, very far from home.  
  
\- - -  
The worst time in any stressful situation, Harry decided, is about five minutes before the stressful thing is due to happen. He read his lesson plan for what could well be the fifty-second time and took in absolutely none of it, paced around the classroom, wrote the date on the board, paced a bit more, and deliberated going for a last minute wee, but eventually decided against it in case any students came in early.  
  
Having woken before his alarm after a decidedly unsettled night, he’d left Ginny asleep and got himself and James up for breakfast. This was a task made more difficult simply by the presence of James, who refused all breakfast options offered, even (thankfully) the ones Harry made up. Eventually he agreed to jam and bread, which was somehow different to the jam and bread Harry had offered him five minutes earlier. A crucial parenting lesson, that: it was always worth offering something twice. Children are fickle, forgetful and illogical, and often enjoy saying ‘no’ for no reason whatsoever.  
  
Harry was too jittery to eat breakfast himself. He had made a weak coffee, which he promptly spilled over the table when, with a _pop,_ his best friend’s head appeared in the fireplace. Say what you like about Muggle houses, but there was no doubt the chances of being startled in your own kitchen were less. He had to wonder just what it was that his friends had against doorbells.  
  
“Morning,” Ron’s head had said cheerfully. “How’s it going?”  
  
Aside from spilling his coffee, Harry had just had to rugby tackle James to stop him from launching himself straight into the fire with a cry of “WON!”, so he felt his two fingered response - not easy when you had a wriggling two year old in a vice-like grip - was fairly justified.  
  
It transpired that Ron and Hermione had called to wish him good luck on his first morning, which was really very nice and made him feel slightly bad about his response. “I feel like I’m watching my child go off to his first day at school,” Ron had said. He adopted a voice remarkably similar to his mother’s. “Be good, dear, and don’t forget to write!”  
  
“What counts as good?” Harry asked.  
  
“You know all the stuff we did at school?”  
  
“Yes ...”  
  
“Yeah, none of that.”  
  
“Do you ever think,” Hermione put in, “what it was like for the teachers, having us as students?”  
  
“Quite terrifying, I would’ve thought,” said Ron. “You set a teacher on fire, Harry killed one - was it one? Mate, if you get kids like us, you’re -”  
  
“Screwed,” Harry agreed.  
  
“Screwed,” James had echoed, just as Ginny came into the kitchen in her dressing gown. She stopped, took in the scene, raised her eyebrows.  
  
“I miss coffee,” she said. Pause. “And alcohol.”  
  
Once Ron and Hermione had gone, having made Harry feel both much better and much worse - what were friends for? - he packed his bag, combed his hair, kissed Ginny and James goodbye at the door, doubled back to clean his robes after James had lovingly smeared them with jam and finally made it outside. It was a lovely September morning; low-hanging cloud wreathed the mountains beyond the village and the pale blue sky hinted at a fine day to come. Whose spirits could fail to be lifted by a commute like this, Harry thought, feeling not for the first time like the luckiest man alive. It wouldn’t last, of course - in ten minutes he’d be regretting every decision he ever made - but if children could be fickle, so could he. For now, he felt wonderful.  
  
On his way up to the classroom he passed some students heading down to breakfast, older ones, who looked at him with abounded curiosity as he gave them a slightly nervy smile. Inside the castle, he felt less wonderful and more, well, really sick.  
  
And now it was one minute to nine and he was definitely going to throw up. _No, you’re not_ , said Ginny’s voice. He really could do with a pocket Ginny, he thought, wondering briefly if George might be able to create something to that effect. Quite possibly, once he’d got past the short jokes.  
  
Harry’s first lesson was with the fifth years. He tried to be optimistic, he really did, but he felt this was relatively bad news. At fifteen he and his peers had organised a student rebellion against the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Granted, he was no Umbridge - he had no penchant for fluffy pink cardigans - but this still worried him somewhat. Fifteen year olds could be crushing, and they’d had four years of a competent teacher already. What would they make of him? He had devastating visions of being pelted with rotten fruit. Why rotten fruit, he didn’t know, but it didn’t feel great.  
  
It was only Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw this morning, hopefully a good thing, and they looked well-meaning enough as they came into the classroom. Harry waited until they had all taken their seats, then stood up.  
  
His mind went blank.  
  
Oh Lord, but it was horrifying. He had gone _utterly,_ utterly blank: not a single word came to the forefront of his brain. Who was he? What was he doing? He knew nothing at all except that there were thirty-odd judging eyes on him and he was standing there like a total idiot.  
  
Speak, he willed his vocal chords. Say something. For the love of Merlin, say something!  
  
“Good morning,” he heard from somewhere. It was his mouth! Hurrah! Miracles did happen. He sounded squeaky, but he’d take squeaky over gormless silence. You couldn’t afford to be picky when you were a _moron_ .  
  
He’d had something of a dilemma when preparing his first lessons: to address the elephant in the room, or not? The elephant in question being himself, of course, or rather his reluctant fame. It seemed like a pretty big-headed (he could think of another word Ron would use) move to expect them to know who he was and what he’d done and act like _that person_ , and he was reluctant to do so. Anticipating that they would of course have questions, he’d decided to simply ignore it until someone asked.  
  
At the moment, though, the only question he was expecting was “what’s wrong with you?”, because unless he found more words - two were not enough, generally - he was going to continue looking like a pillock.  
  
“So,” he managed. Not bad. “Fifth year.” State the obvious. “O.W.L year ...” Most of the class looked tense at that, except for one girl in the front row who looked positively excited. Maybe there was a Hermione in every year group. “... but we’re not going to worry about that yet.” His confidence was building now; he’d been speaking coherently for a minute and no one had yet assailed him with rotten fruit. Or laughed. “I don’t think I started revising until about May and I did all right, so there’s no need to panic just yet.”  
  
This got a few smiles and a few more ‘ _should a teacher be saying that?’_ raised eyebrows, especially from the girl at the front. Probably not was the answer to that, but Harry had never done things by the book. Hell, he’d never even opened the book.  
  
“I remember O.W.L. year,” he went on, “and I remember that in the first week of term, every teacher spent the first lesson going over what we’d need to know for the exam and how this year was going to be about hard work and keeping your nose to the grindstone. That’s not how I’m going to do it.”  
  
As he spoke, gesturing to make his point, he had a sudden sense of that old familiar feeling: as with Dumbledore’s Army, when despite his nerves, he’d stood up and spoke about what he knew and believed and it had felt _right_ . It could have gone so badly wrong, this, but he knew with a sudden and profound certainty that it wasn’t going to.  
  
“You’ll have learnt about Dark creatures and how to defend against them, and there are other things that yeah, you’ll need to know, but defensive magic - for me, it’s about instinct,” he said. “It’s about being resourceful and thinking on your feet and thinking outside the box, too. So with that in mind …”  
  
He was distantly and delightedly aware that the class was listening and watching with rapt attention, something he had hardly dare to dream might happen. Emboldened, he ploughed on. He had planned the same first lesson, with some adjustments, for every year group bar the first years; this was its first test run.  
  
“Your task is to each think of an everyday spell that you could use defensively,” he said. “And I don’t mean your traditional defensive spells, like the Shield Charm - who knows the Shield Charm?” One or two raised their hands. “We’ll come onto that, it’s useful, but for now I want to get you thinking about _everything_ you have in your arsenal. A friend of mine once used _Wingardium Leviosa_ to knock out a troll - he levitated its club out of its hand. Another friend turned a tapestry into stone so the people chasing us smashed into it.” This drew more raised eyebrows and a few mutterings, but they seemed more impressed than doubtful.  
  
“How could you use a Cheering Charm?” Harry continued. “A Shrinking Spell? Think about it - talk to each other - and we’ll make a list.”  
  
At once, the class erupted in noise, people twisting round to eagerly launch into conversation with the person behind them, waving their hands to demonstrate, shouting ideas out, and Harry, finally, felt his shoulders relax.

\- - -

The staffroom was a very different place to the one Harry remembered: no longer dark and austere but warm and comfortable. He took the cup of tea Neville passed him and sank thankfully into an armchair. No one had told him just how tiring teaching was; it was only break time and he felt exhausted. Exhausted, but pleased, and - fulfilled, somehow, like he'd achieved some great goal.

Professor Devereaux came in and smiled at him.  
  
“Do you know, Professor,” she said in that lovely genteel voice, “never before have I had students come into my lesson unable to stop talking about the lesson before!”  
  
“I - really?” said Harry, unable to believe his ears. “That’s … er. Wow.” He filed that detail away, and when he got home later that evening, somehow both drained of energy and bouncing off the walls from exhilaration, that was the first thing he told Ginny.  
  
“What did I say?” said Ginny, once she’d squealed and hugged and kissed him. “I knew you’d be brilliant.”  
  
“It was only the first day,” Harry warned.  
  
“You’ll see,” said Ginny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RE: Hogwarts staffing: I believe it has already been said that having one teacher per subject is not particular logical, numbers-wise. As such there is reference to there being more than one member of each department, but I have not put any thought into the matter besides that. Also, Harry is clearly mentioned as being /the/ DADA teacher. So. Inconsistencies abound, and if anyone has any thoughts/ideas please feel free to share ...


	4. Soup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been edited to account for the fact that September 1st 2005 was a Thursday, and so lessons would have begun on a Friday. JKR liked to make every September 1st a Sunday, but I'm not making it that easy for myself :P 
> 
> As for 'if lessons began on a Friday, wouldn't Harry have met Gabe on his first day?' - at my school we had a two week rotating timetable, so you didn't have the same days over and over. I know this isn't in the books, but this is MY Hogwarts!

Term had started on a Thursday, which meant Harry only had one day of teaching before the weekend; his first full week, however, was one of those peculiar examples of time in which each day seems to last a week in itself and yet you are still startled, somehow, to find that it’s Friday. This was probably due to the fact that apart from teaching, James-wrangling and sleeping, he spent much of that week trying to get to grips with school life again, which was a job in itself.  
  
It was perhaps a good thing that his first encounter with Gabriel Hutchinson didn’t come until Friday - but we’ll get to that.  
  
Quite a lot had changed at Hogwarts since Harry had been a student there. Apart from new members of staff - Harry was still mostly smiling, nodding and resolutely not addressing anyone by name - there were new subjects, too. Magical Arts and Crafts was a popular one, taught by Professor Wilde, a dramatic-looking and oddly ageless witch; she floated around the castle with long black hair streaming down her back and reminded Harry strikingly of Fleur, apart from the strong Newcastle accent.  
  
Harry had learnt from McGonagall that the introduction of physical education as a class had been one of the most controversial decisions she’d known in her time at Hogwarts - “and that’s saying something,” she’d sniffed, glancing at the portrait of Dumbledore (he merely winked). Since introducing twice-weekly sessions for all students McGonagall had received at least that many angry letters from traditionalists, some parents, some not, apparently infuriated at the prospect of children having to leave the castle and move around. This was, unsurprisingly, quite futile - Harry had a vivid image of McGonagall burning letters on the fire with a blank expression - and had made absolutely no difference to her decision. As she pointed out, incidents of duelling in corridors had decreased, results had improved and when it came to it, most of the students didn’t really mind. Games and Sports was taught by a friendly pair in their thirties, a wiry witch called Madam Quirke who told all the students to call her Nora - McGonagall pretended not to know this - and Mr Morgan (Jack), who it transpired had been at school with Charlie Weasley. He had bounded up to Harry one breaktime, shaken his hand so vigorously Harry thought his might fall off, and proceeded to grill him about why he hadn’t become a professional Quidditch player. He’d then asked for Ginny’s autograph, which pleased Harry, although he did wish Jack Morgan wasn’t quite so good-looking.

Thus far, not one person in his classes had ventured any comment or question about his presence there at Hogwarts, something that had surprised him. Neville, on the other hand, had been through it himself - he wasn’t as famous as Harry, but the seventh year class at the time he’d started had been first years during the Carrow year, as he dubbed it darkly, and they had remembered the daring older student who had risked his life to rebel against the reign of terror. Even so, as he told Harry, it had taken at least several weeks for anyone to mention it.  
  
“Can you imagine ever having asked McGonagall anything personal? Or Snape?” he said, and Harry had to concede that he had a point. “They’ll get there, when they get more comfortable with you - the more confident ones will start asking questions, but I shouldn’t worry.”  
  
On the whole, behaviour was good, as far as Harry could tell; there were a few in the older years who liked to mess around, but it was fairly harmless, and he hadn’t dealt with any rudeness or insubordination. That was, at least, until he had the Gryffindor and Slytherin first years, on a Friday morning before lunch.  
  
Harry remembered very little of Quirrell’s lessons from his first year, and even Hermione, when pressed, had to admit that she couldn’t recall much either. He had decided to start the first years off by getting them thinking about what the Dark Arts were, and what they could be used for, so the initial lesson was a simple paired activity in which they had to brainstorm thoughts and feedback to the class. It had gone well with the other first year class - he’d had some silly suggestions, and some who couldn’t be bothered to think, but they’d got a good discussion going in the end.  
  
The second class trooped in after breaktime, sat while Harry gave them their instructions, then got to their feet to pair up. There was the usual commotion of people scrambling to be with their friend, but after a minute it became clear that there was something else afoot: everyone seemed to have paired up except a small group of boys. Three were standing close together, whispering to each other, while a fourth boy stood slightly apart from them.  
  
“What’s going on here?” Harry demanded. The group of three were looking at each other, seemingly debating whether or not they should speak. The fourth boy just looked sulky.  
  
“Well?”  
  
One of the trio, scuffling his shoes on the floor, muttered something.  
  
“Speak up,” said Harry impatiently.  
  
“Hutchinson won’t work with anyone,” the boy mumbled, looking deeply uncomfortable.

Harry glanced briefly at his class list. “Hutchinson. Gabriel,” he said, and he suddenly remembered the Sorting Ceremony, and the boy’s surly expression, which didn’t seem to have shifted in the days that had followed. “Why not?”

Gabriel was determinedly not meeting his eyes. He didn’t say anything. Harry felt a flicker of nerves; this was his first real challenge, dealing with difficult behaviour, and he knew he had several options. He could send the boy out for a few minutes and see if that scared him into cooperating, but something told him that wouldn’t work. He could threaten a visit to McGonagall’s office, but that seemed a bit drastic for an eleven year old who was, after all, still in his first week.  
  
Or he could try something else.  
  
“Right,” he said. “You lot - you work as a three. And you -” he gestured at Gabriel - “you’re working with me.” This sent a ripple through the rest of the class. Some seemed quite awed by their classmate who dared to be defiant; others looked thoroughly unimpressed, and were shooting him disdainful looks.  
  
Harry sat down at a desk a little way apart from everyone else, who thankfully seemed to be immersed in the activity fairly quickly, although some were still glancing over their shoulders for any hint of further trouble. He left them to it and waited for Gabriel to sit down across from him, which he did with all the speed and enthusiasm of a particularly aged tortoise, looking rather as if Harry had placed shackles on his feet and a prison sentence on his head.  
  
“OK,” said Harry. “So, Dark magic. What do you think makes it Dark, any ideas?”  
  
Silence.  
  
Harry’s heart raced. He didn’t want to have to deal with this. They’d been provided with details of all students who had any kind of learning difficulties or disabilities, so he knew this boy wasn’t unable to speak. From what his classmate had said, he had been uncooperative in other lessons, and he wondered how the other teachers had dealt with it. Perhaps it hadn’t been noticeable, if it wasn’t a particularly interactive lesson.  
  
“Look,” he said, trying to keep his voice firm. “If you don’t cooperate, I’ll have to send you to the Headmistress. I don’t want to, but you’re not giving me much of a choice. I can’t have you sitting here doing nothing.”  
  
“Go on, then.”  
  
Gabriel had his head down, gaze fixed on the table, so the response - and the fierce tone in which it came - took Harry by surprise. He stared at the boy for a moment, then irritation flared.  
  
“That’s what you want? Really?”  
  
“I don’t _care_ ,” Gabriel said roughly. Still he didn’t look up, hiding his face. “Send me out. Send me away. I don’t care!”  
  
On the last word, his voice broke. All at once Harry was reminded forcibly that he was just eleven, still a child, and his anger abated as quickly as it had come. The hunched shoulders shook. Harry thought he might be crying, and some protective instinct told him not to draw attention to it.  
  
“Go and wash your face,” he instructed in a low voice. “Then come back. I won’t make you talk for the rest of the lesson, but we are going to have a chat afterwards. You’ve got this afternoon off, so I want you to come to my office after lunch. One o’clock.”  
  
Gabriel didn’t say anything, but Harry received what looked like a nod, so he left it at that. When he got up to address the class and Gabriel shuffled out of the room, he could tell from the knowing glances the others gave each other that they thought he’d been sent out, which the boy probably preferred to being seen upset.  
  
He got a lively discussion from the first years about what Dark magic was and what it wasn’t, with Gabriel slipping back into his seat ten minutes in and sitting silently until the bell rang. Harry assigned them homework - to write a definition of Dark magic - and let them go. He was trusting Gabriel not to ignore his last instruction, but whether that was foolish or not, he didn’t know.

He popped home for lunch, something he hadn't done yet, but the first trial of his behaviour management had thrown him and he found himself seeking comfort. He met Ginny and James on the lane, on their way back from a walk around the village, and felt wildly envious that he hadn't been able to join them. They were pink in the face and very pleased to see him, especially when he made soup for them all.

He had been intending to tell Ginny about the incident - she usually gave good advice - but once they were sitting around the table the warm, sunny kitchen some of the urge left him. He watched her laugh as James splashed soup down his front and decided to leave this particular problem in the castle, instead asking her about her morning. She had been making notes for her new book idea, a historical documentation of women in Quidditch complete with personal stories and anecdotes, and of course a chapter on the only British all-female Quidditch team, the Harpies. This led to a heated debate about the match they would be playing in tomorrow, against Falmouth - Ginny thought they’d win, but Harry had noticed they’d lost some momentum since she had gone on maternity leave again and predicted a loss, although narrow. With all that, he found that the impending conversation didn’t return to his mind until he glanced at his watch and saw it was nearly one.

\---

Gabe had considered not turning up. He could see that the teacher wasn't entirely convinced that he would, and it would work in his favour, surely, to disobey a direct order? But he imagined them coming to find him, and having to be shouted at and dealing with the confrontation and in the end he found that after lunch (which he ate at the end of the table, alone) his feet carried him up to the third floor. He didn’t really know what was about to happen, but he felt too numb to do anything except stand there and wait.

Potter turned up a minute later, looking as if he'd had to run. If he was surprised to see Gabe, he didn't show it. He unlocked the door and told Gabe to come in.

They sat on either side of the desk, Gabe looking around as Potter shuffled things around. There were books and plants and lots of colourful items that looked like they were from different countries, but that wasn't what caught Gabe's eye. It was the photographs that were dotted all around the room. The people in them were moving, though that didn't bother him so much either. Most of them were clearly of Potter's family, him and a red haired woman and a little dark-haired boy. In one picture the little boy was sitting on his dad's shoulders at what seemed to be a sports event. They looked like they were having the time of their lives.

“Ok,” said Potter. He was young, younger than Gabe's mum, and didn't look much like a teacher. His black hair stuck up all over the place and he had a strange scar on his forehead that looked like a bolt of lightning. “I just want to talk to you about what happened earlier, and I'm hoping you will talk, because we can't really get anywhere if you don't.”

Gabe said nothing. Potter looked disappointed.  
  
“What’s the problem?” he said. “I haven’t talked to any of the other staff about you, you know, so I don’t know if - if this is something about my lesson, or your classmates, or -”  
  
What’s the problem? Gabe didn’t know how he’d answer that even if he wanted to. The truth was that since he’d got on that train he had felt utterly muddled. On the one hand, he was furious with his mum for letting this happen to him. On the other - and this part was the one that gave the permanent ache in his chest, what felt like a sort of brick wall in front of his heart - he desperately wanted to go home. He knew that there would be ways to get himself expelled, but somehow he couldn’t make himself do anything that drastic. He could barely make himself do anything, and he’d hardly said a word to anyone since he arrived. He knew everyone thought he was sulky and uncooperative and he knew that he’d get in trouble for it sooner or later. What that would mean, he didn’t know.  
  
What he did know was that if anyone was nice to him, or pressed him about it, he’d find it hard to hold back the emotions that had been swirling around inside him and sending him half-mad. So he pressed his lips together tightly and concentrated with all his might on not letting that dam burst.  
  
“Please,” said Potter. His expression was hopeful. “If you don’t tell me, I can’t help y-”  
  
“STOP IT!”  
  
Gabe found that he was on his feet, though he didn’t remember standing up. His fists were clenched by his side and he was trembling all over. He hadn’t decided to shout, to interrupt, but something inside him was snapping and breaking and shattering and he didn’t know how to - he wanted to get _out of this_ \- he had no control -  
  
“You can’t help me!” he shouted. His voice sounded high and shaky and he hated it, hated that how would show weakness to Potter, who had looked startled at first, but now simply regarded him with a sort of quiet acceptance. Gabe thought that might be worse than anger, that guarded expression which told him nothing, and it had the unfortunate effect of making him even angrier.

“I wouldn't tell _you_ anything,” he snapped. “You're just butting in and you think you know everything but you don't. You don't know anything! You're a _crap_ teacher!”

He saw, with a twisted satisfaction, Potter's flinch as that blow landed. It felt good, in that moment, to hurt someone, to hit back, to try and make them feel as bad as he felt.

“I think you'd better go,” said Potter, the tightness of his voice suggesting that he had finally crossed into anger and he was trying hard not to shout himself. Gabe hesitated for a second, looking at him. His jaw was rigid and his green eyes held something that suddenly reminded him that he was a kid and he'd just shouted at an adult and that adult, who had seemed nothing special to begin with, now looked … scary.

‘Sorry’ came to his lips, but he couldn't say it, somehow.

\---

Harry had had wands held to his throat, his head, his heart; Ron had once joked that his Animagus form would be a cat because he appeared to have at least nine lives. He'd seen and survived things he'd never ever forget …

And yet sitting in a comfortable office, faced with an eleven year old boy, he felt shaken to his core. It was a blessing that he had no lessons to teach on a Friday afternoon - he wasn't sure he would have managed it. He felt cold and shaky, the strong tea he'd made to calm him down now tepid and untouched because his hand had been trembling too much to pick up the cup.

_You're a crap teacher!_

He knew what Ginny would say: that the boy was just lashing out because he clearly had problems, but that in itself was bothering Harry greatly. He had failed, when it came down to it. He hadn't known what he was doing or how to handle the situation - well, he'd _thought_ he had - and it had backfired horribly. The boy obviously needed help, and Harry had not been able to give it to him.

A good teacher would, he felt instinctively. He imagined Neville coaxing Gabriel out of his shell, kind and unforceful; or even McGonagall, with her straightforward matter-of-factness, getting to the heart of the problem and sorting it with no fuss. Harry had just made things worse.

He sat in his office all afternoon, by all appearances going over next week's plans but struggling to concentrate for more than a few minutes. He kept seeing that pale, angry face and wishing he could go back and do things differently.

At four o'clock he packed up his things and headed out, taking several secret shortcuts behind tapestries to avoid meeting people. At the forefront of his mind was whether he should tell Ginny; he desperately wanted to forget about it, but he was sure she would notice immediately that he was upset.

He still hadn't decided when he reached the gates and stopped short. On the other side, waving frantically, was a young boy with hair the colour of mustard, leaping up and down in excitement. Beside him, and doing the precise opposite, was a tall, elegant witch, who nodded graciously at Harry as he opened the gates.

“I'm sorry we're a little ahead of schedule,” said Andromeda. Teddy had darted past her and was hugging Harry's legs with all the strength a seven year old possessed (surprisingly quite a lot; Harry wobbled precariously and just managed to retain his balance). “Teddy was hoping he could see your classroom.”

There was a note of great reluctance in her voice. She was never relaxed, entirely, but right now she looked like she was the one held at wandpoint. She was, after all, standing in front of the place where her daughter had died, and Harry recognised the strength of character it must have taken for her to put Teddy's needs ahead of her own and let him come.

In all honesty - and only adding to the mountain of guilt currently weighing on his shoulders - Harry had completely forgotten that Teddy was due to stay over. Feeling like the worst godfather ever, he pasted on a big bright smile and gently prised Teddy off his legs.

“Of course! No problem,” he said. “Let's go and have a look then, Ted … Ginny will be in,” he added to Andromeda, carefully, “if you wanted to go and have a cup of tea with her …?”

“Thank you, but I shan't today,” said Andromeda. “Will you bring Teddy back on Sunday, or shall I fetch him?”

“I can bring him.” Harry looked at her and wanted to say more, something comforting, but he didn't dare. “Um … take care, then.”

He hoped that the small smile she gave him meant she grasped what he really meant. She kissed Teddy goodbye and Disapparated beyond the gates.

Harry had never spoken to his godson about his parents’ deaths, and he wasn't entirely sure that Teddy knew the castle they were entering was where it had happened. He certainly wasn't going to bring it up; Teddy was like a live firework walking along next to him, positively crackling with anticipation. He wasn't a loud child, never had been, but he was always very enthusiastic and happy-go-lucky. Harry often thought that raising a grandson like Teddy was the best possible healer for Andromeda's heartache.

“I like the hair,” he told Teddy as they went up the marble staircase. Some students were milling around, heading to common rooms before dinner; they looked at Teddy with interest.

“I wanted to do it like a bee,” said Teddy thoughtfully, as if this were perfectly normal. “But I couldn't get the stripes. Granny said best not, anyway.”

“Maybe a bit much,” Harry agreed. They reached his classroom. It was very ordinary by Hogwarts standards, but Teddy's mouth formed a comical 'o’ as he stepped inside, looking as if he was being shown one of the great wonders of the world.

“This is your classroom?” he asked. “It's amazing!”

Harry laughed.

“Gran said that my dad used to teach what you're teaching,” Teddy said, quite unexpectedly. Harry was surprised Andromeda had shared that detail; she was often, understandably, reluctant to talk about the past. “Was this his classroom, too?”

“No,” said Harry. “No, his was downstairs. Do you want to see it? It'll look different now, though.”

“I want to see it,” said Teddy at once. “Please,” he added as an afterthought.

They went down to the first floor, where Harry - eventually - located the classroom that DADA had been taught in during his time. It wasn't used anymore, and it was quite easy to imagine Professor Lupin standing at the front, telling them about Grindylows.

He wondered if Teddy was trying to picture somethingsimilar.

“Was my dad a good teacher?” he asked Harry, who sat down on a desk and pulled Teddy up next to him.

“He was the best I ever knew,” he said truthfully. “He was fun, and really interesting … everyone liked him. His lessons were always the best.”

“Like you,” said Teddy. The certainty of this statement made Harry draw in a breath. Was he like Lupin? He tried to imagine how he would have dealt with Gabriel. He had been good at handling Harry, but Harry hadn't been angry at that point. He had _wanted_ to be there. Having known Harry's parents as well, and his background, Lupin had probably had a good idea of what he was dealing with.

“I would like to be as good as your dad,” he said slowly. “I don't know if I am, though.”

“You probably are,” said Teddy, undeterred. “Granny said she thought you'd be good.”

“Did she? Well … I don't know.”

But looking at Teddy, the last living trace of his favourite teacher, sitting here in the room where he had taught, Harry felt gripped by determination. He _would_ be good. He wasn't going to let down Teddy, and even Andromeda, who believed in him; nor McGonagall, who had taken a chance on him -

He heard a cough. Turning round, he saw McGonagall in the doorway, as if he had conjured her with his thoughts. Dimly he wondered how long she had been there.

“I apologise for interrupting,” she said. “I was passing and noticed that we appeared to have a new student. A little young, though, perhaps?"

“Teddy wanted to see my classroom,” Harry explained. “And … and his dad's, too.”

He absently watched McGonagall as she bestowed a rare smile upon Teddy, lost in his thoughts. He would have been touched had he seen her minutes earlier, happening upon the scene in this old classroom; the sons of two of her favourite students, gone now, leaving behind children who had already lost so much. Harry's resemblance to his father was much more pronounced, but Teddy's thin face, his quick, shy smile, the thoughtful furrow of his brow; they were all Remus.

She had heard Harry doubting his ability, and wondered if something had occurred. She would have to ask him later - she knew without shadow of a doubt that he would excel, and was keen not to lose him to his own uncertainties - but for now, she let him be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may be being a bit controversial myself in introducing PE, but I can't help thinking how unhealthy the Hogwarts kids must be?! I mean, no one really likes school PE, but it's a rite of passage, right?


	5. Stupid Feathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5!   
> Thank you to everyone who has commented and left kudos; although I don't reply to every comment, trust me, it has been read and appreciated and read twenty more times!  
> Feel free to come and find me on Tumblr at @glisseowrites - I post chapter previews and would love to talk to people about the story (or about anything!!)

McGonagall called Harry into her office first thing on Monday morning.

His first thought was that Gabriel had reported what had happened, but that seemed unlikely, and if it had happened McGonagall gave no indication of it. More likely was it that - and he felt shamed at the idea - she had overheard him talking to Teddy on Friday and deduced that he might be having problems.

“I think - although this is merely a guess - that I would be right in saying you have something on your mind,” she said when he sat down, confirming his suspicions. “I wondered if there was anything I might be able to help with.”

That was nice, and did make Harry feel a bit better, but he still felt tremendously guilty about how things had gone on Friday. Nonetheless, he found himself pouring out the whole story: the lesson, Gabriel's odd behaviour, and the terrible meeting. He stumbled over recalling what Gabriel had said to him, his face growing warm with embarrassment.

“... Then I knew I was going to lose my temper, so I told him to go,” he finished, shamefacedly.

“Yes, you must see that you don't,” said McGonagall. Harry heard the reprimand that wasn't and winced. “Quite interesting, and odd, as you say. I've never known a pupil so reluctant to settle in.”

“What's his background?”

“Muggleborn,” McGonagall answered at once. “Not well off. Father isn't in the picture. I believe his mother is a nurse, and therefore may have had little time for him.” She paused, frowning. “It was Henrietta who went to tell them. I don't recall her saying there was a particularly adverse reaction. Shock, yes, but there generally is.”

“It is quite a surprise,” said Harry. She smiled a little at that.

“He certainly doesn't sound happy, and it seems to me that's why he lashed out at you when you tried to help.”

“Did I?” Harry couldn't help wondering aloud.

“What do you mean?”

“Try to help … I mean, I  _ wanted _ to help, but I -”

“Don't believe you went about it in the right way?” McGonagall guessed. He nodded.

“Never assume,” she said, “that any other teacher would have got a different result. It may be the case, but you simply can't know, and there's little good to be done in punishing yourself over something that can't be proven.”

Harry mulled this over for a moment, and found that it made a lot of sense. “So you don't think I made things worse?”

“What I think,” said McGonagall, “is that Mr Hutchinson needs to talk about what he is struggling with. He didn't find the right outlet the other day, but I believe he can. And I do think you should continue trying.”

“Me? But …” Harry trailed off, not because he couldn't think of a reasonable objection, but because he had just caught Dumbledore's eye. The old man looked at him with an expression Harry had seen many times: a sort of calm acceptance mingled with expectation. In that moment it reminded Harry forcibly of a time when he had stood only inches away from where he sat now and yelled at the top of his voice, shattered things, because he felt like his heart was shattering and he so desperately craved freedom from his mind, his heart, the pain of grief that clawed at his gut but that he didn't know how to escape.

It had been nearly ten years since he had lost Sirius, but he still felt as if someone was closing a steel fist around his heart just thinking about it.

He didn't know what Gabriel Hutchinson was so upset about it but with that memory in mind, he understood very well what was happening to him; understood that feeling of wanting to escape from your own emotions that both numbed and ached you, throw them aside and run far, far away.

He nodded.

“I'll try my best.”

“Thank you,” said McGonagall. “Professor Bloom is head of Gryffindor; I suggest you share some details with her once you have spoken to Mr Hutchinson. I think you'll find her more than understanding.”

Harry nodded again, already thinking about how to approach Gabriel. He was tired; their last meeting had plagued him all weekend, which had not been easy in itself. On Saturday morning he had taken James and Teddy for a walk in the foothills behind the village, and they'd had a nice afternoon listening to the Harpies match (they'd won) and playing board games, but then James had flat out refused to go to bed before Teddy and stayed awake mostly by sheer force of will, which meant a long and fraught night for Harry and Ginny. His behaviour had become much worse lately, perhaps as the  baby's due date drew nearer; Ginny, with him most of the time, was finding him difficult to handle, especially as late pregnancy took its toll. This had led to a heated and whispered argument after Harry suggested she ask her parents for help with him, which she refused to do. (“You can't do it all yourself!” “Are you seriously telling me  _ you _ wouldn't try to?”) They'd made up grudgingly, but overall it was not the idyllic picture-portrait family weekend Harry could have done with. And now this …

It played on his mind throughout the morning and his first lessons, which went well enough to make him feel slightly less of a total failure. At breaktime, he headed down to the courtyard and found Gabriel loitering by himself on the sidelines. He was watching a group of first year Ravenclaw boys with his usual surly expression.

He noticed Harry from a few feet away, and eyed him warily as he approached.

“Have you got time for a chat?” Harry asked lightly. The wording seemed to throw him: he obviously didn’t anticipate being given the option of saying no. As Harry had hoped, he was so surprised he nodded without thinking.

They walked in silence to Harry's office, Gabriel trailing behind him. When they got there Harry gestured for him to sit in one of the armchairs, not in front of the desk.

“When I say chat, I mean really that I'm going to talk, mostly, and I want you to listen,” he said, taking the other chair. “Does that sound all right?”

Another wary nod. Gabriel didn't seem to know what to expect. His hands were gripping the arms of his seat, fingertips scratching at the fabric.

Harry  _ was  _ hoping that he would talk, but he had learnt not to demand it. “I'm sorry about Friday,” he began. “But - in a way - I think it might help me to help you ... I realised that you have something bothering you, really bothering you, and you're struggling to cope with everything that you're feeling. And I know how that feels. It's hard.” He paused. “It's really hard.”

He had, he thought, hardly said anything, but it was as if there had been some magic word spoken, something which unlocked the almost literal floodgates; Gabriel's lip wobbled, he took a great heaving breath, and without any more warning silent tears poured down his face.

“You don't want to be here,” Harry guessed, quietly.

Gabriel shook his head wildly. When he could speak, with another shuddering breath, he said, “I'm not like everyone here. I'm  _ normal.  _ And I  _ had  _ a life and a school I was going to. I had loads of mates … I was on the football team …” He shot Harry a disparaging look through the tears rolling down his cheeks. “I bet you don't even know what football  _ is _ .”   
  
“You're right,” said Harry evenly. “I only lived in the Muggle world for eleven years, same as you. Of course I've got no idea what football is.”   
  
He raised his eyebrows, and Gabriel had the good grace to look slightly ashamed.    
  
“I didn't know you were … like me,” he muttered, sniffing loudly. “Your mum and dad aren't magic, either?”   
  
“No, they were,” said Harry. He paused, wondering how best to explain without divulging the most personal details of his past. “I grew up not knowing I was a wizard. It wasn't happy for me. When I found out I had somewhere else to go, another world where I belonged, I was over the moon.”

“So you don't know I feel,” said Gabriel, but with little attack. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his robe, too late for Harry to conjure a handkerchief.

“In a way? No,” said Harry. “I have no idea. But I do know … in general. The feelings.”

There was a beat of silence, before Gabriel said, in a rush as if he were suddenly desperate to get the words out, “We couldn't even tell my sister. Where I was going. She's nine, so they said she might tell people. So she doesn't know. I had to lie to her.” His lower lip trembled again. “And I haven't talked to my mum … it's never been this long.” More tears splashed into his lap.

“Have you written to her?” Harry asked gently.

A vigorous shake of the head.

“It might help.”

It took a while before Gabriel managed his reply. “I don't know how. Everyone gets letters from owls …”

“I can show you,” Harry offered, but he received another shake of the head.

“We live on a council estate. And Mum works loads. I can't send an owl to home in case Ruby or anyone else sees it.”

“I could post it for you. I'm sure we could set something up where she could write back that way, too,” said Harry, hoping that was true. He saw a glimmer of something - something hopeful - in the boy’s eyes and resolved to make it so. “What do you say?”

Gabriel hesitated. Harry, struck with sudden inspiration, got up and went to his desk drawers.

“Here,” he said, lobbing what he'd found over to Gabriel, who caught it, looking startled.

“Pens? And paper?”

Harry was very fond of Arthur Weasley, but he had never seemed to quite grasp the fact that his son-in-law had grown up with Muggles and as such was not at all enraptured by perfectly ordinary Muggle items, such as the ballpoint pens and spiral bound notebook he had given Harry last Christmas. He appreciated the gesture, however, and - well, this particular gift looked like it might come in handy here.

“Thought you might like a break from quills,” said Harry casually. “They can be tricky to get used to.”

“Stupid feathers,” Gabriel muttered, but he was examining the pack of pens with a reverence not a million miles from Arthur's as he'd watched Harry open them at Christmas. (“Look! The ink is already  _ in there!”) _

“So you write your letter,” said Harry. “And give it to me - I won't read it, I promise - and I'll post it. And we'll work out a way for your mum to write back.”

Gabriel looked pensive. “Writing to my mum isn't going to make me want to be here,” he pointed out.

"I know.”

“So … what are you going to do about that? Aren't you meant to fix it?”

The tone was accusatory, but Harry didn't feel much bite behind it. He shrugged.

“I can't fix it, not just like that.” He studied Gabriel carefully, skin reddened around his eyes and nose from crying, but defiant still in his expression. “It'll get better. But I know you won't believe me when I say that.”

Gabriel shook his head.

“You don't believe me, 'cos right now you can't imagine ever feeling differently,” said Harry softly. “But I promise you, you will.”

He hesitated.

“Do you trust me?”

It was a risky question, and perhaps he shouldn't have pushed it so soon. Gabriel looked at his hands, twisting in his lap, and gave a minute shrug of the shoulders.

_Good enough_ , thought Harry. That would have to be good enough.

He let Gabriel go, but stopped him as he was halfway through the door.

“You're doing well,” he said. He wasn't sure what made him say it, but he felt like it was the right thing. Gabriel didn't break into a smile, or thank him, or anything earth-shattering; in fact, he looked like he wanted to cry again. But he nodded.

Good enough.

\---

Getting Gabriel to open up (sort of) to him was one thing, but Harry was concerned that he'd never want to stay without friends he wanted to stay with. He'd seen the way the other Gryffindors had looked at him: they'd already formed an opinion of him that would be hard to undo overnight. The houses didn't actually mix much; in places like these, friendships tend to be established quickly with those closest to you, whether they are good friendships or not. If you are left out, it is a very lonely place to be.

He put the problem to Ginny that evening. He was surprised to find Molly at the house when he got in, and even more surprised to find that she had spent the day there, helping out with housework and with James. He knew better than to say anything like  _ I told you so _ \- not that he wanted to; he was pleased Ginny was accepting help. On her way out, though, Molly took him aside and confided that she was worried about her daughter.

“James is very strong willed, and she seems tired,” she told Harry in an undertone. “I tried to get her to bring James to us for a day, let her rest, but you know how she is.”

“Strong willed,” said Harry wryly. But he promised to try to persuade her - gently, he thought. He felt a prickle of guilt that he hadn't been there enough for Ginny, and mentally vowed that he would focus on her much more, especially when the baby came. He put James to bed that night, getting soaked from head to toe at bathtime thanks to James’ (remarkably accurate) dolphin impression, and brought Ginny a cup of tea in the living room. In the soft light of the lamps, he could see that she did, indeed, look tired.

“How was your day?” she asked before he could say anything. “Did you speak to Gabriel?”

Harry was reluctant to make the topic of conversation about himself again, as he feared he had been doing too often lately, so he hesitated. Ginny rolled her eyes.

“Harry, I'm fine.”

“I didn't say you weren't!” he protested.

She pulled a face. “I can see you looking at me like you think I'm made of glass.”

“You look tired.”

“I am. That's pregnancy, and James. It doesn't meant I don't want to hear about your day.”

“What d'you mean?”

“I mean that I can tell you feel guilty talking about yourself when you're worrying about me,” said Ginny pointedly.

Harry couldn't help but laugh at that. He never ceased to be amazed by how well Ginny could read him.

“Well, yeah,” he admitted. “But I - it's not fair, is it? Leaving you to deal with James all the time -”

“You do loads to help!”

“It shouldn't be helping though, should it? I’m his dad, I have just as much responsibility …”   
  
“Harry,” Ginny interrupted patiently. She patted his hand. “I’m not going to pretend it’s not a bit rubbish that I have to give up Quidditch and do the pregnancy thing, but I don’t blame  _ you  _ for that. I want you to be happy -”   
  
“And I want you to be happy!” said Harry heatedly.    
  
“I  _ am  _ happy. I have our family, I still have my writing and it’s not like I can’t go back to the Harpies. But things aren’t going to be blissful all the time, and that’s not your fault, so don’t you think for a  _ minute  _ that it is.”   
  
“I could do more,” Harry persisted. “I could - I could take time off work -”   
  
“No, you couldn’t, and I don’t want you to.” Ginny’s expression was earnest. “Harry, I like hearing stuff about school and helping you with problems. If I was unhappy for any reason, I’d tell you.”   
  
“You would,” Harry had to concede. Ginny had never been backwards about coming forwards, as Molly liked to say. She didn’t believe in stewing in negative feelings - better out than in, she’d once told Harry blithely after a massive tirade about pregnancy when she was expecting James. And she was right; as she pointed out, “How can I expect you to do anything about it if I don’t tell you how I feel?”   
  
“Right. So that’s that. Now, tell me about Gabriel.”   
  
That’s that. Harry had to marvel at how simple Ginny made things seem: how easy. She smiled at him from above her mug and squeezed his hand, and he instantly felt better. Settling back into the cushions, he relayed the conversation from earlier that day and explained his predicament about finding Gabriel some friends.   
  
“What about an after school club?” said Ginny thoughtfully. “Just for first years? Get him mixing with some others.”   
  
“What sort of club?”   
  
She chewed her lip, thinking. “Hmm. What would be useful? Are there any spells that are good for school, stuff you wish you’d known?”   
  
“Spell-Check Spell,” said Harry at once. “And that thesaurus one what’s-his-face in the Aurors showed me. The one that gives you a better word. And  _ transcribere  _ -”   
  
“The note-taking spell? Exactly! There must be loads, and they never teach you all that.”   
  
“D’you think I could?”    
  
Ginny just gave him A Look. Grinning, Harry said, “And you wouldn’t mind me being home later? If I did it?”   
  
“Hardly much later,” she pointed out reasonably. “You’d start at what, twenty to four? You’d be done before five. That’s earlier than staff meeting days.”   
  
This was very true. The idea began to unfold itself in Harry’s mind. If he could convince Gabriel to go (and he thought, perhaps arrogantly, that he could) then he had a decent chance of introducing him to someone new; and in any case, it ought to be useful to all the first years, and McGonagall would have to be pleased with that, wouldn’t she?   
  
He put the idea to her the next morning.

“Very well,” she said, looking faintly approving. “Put the information on the noticeboards.”

“Er - OK,” said Harry, slightly thrown by how easy it had been. “Thanks.”

“Remarkable,” murmured Dumbledore, as the door closed behind him.

“He’s doing well,” said McGonagall.    


“Did you doubt that he would?”

“I suppose not. What do you mean, remarkable?”

“To see him as a grown man,” said Dumbledore softly, “living a normal life … when there was a time …”

“You thought he wouldn't survive?”

“It seemed that way,” said Dumbledore.

“There still is something … special about him,” McGonagall admitted. She usually refrained from using that kind of language, and it did not trip easily off her tongue. “It's hard to know what, exactly -”

“There are a great many special things about him. I think you will find that how much he cares is just one of them.”

“He'll cause trouble,” said McGonagall frankly. “I'm in no doubts about that.”

“Would you expect anything less? And yet I suspect you don't regret giving him the job.” Dumbledore smiled. “I imagine it will, in any case, be a good kind of trouble.”

“A good kind of trouble,” McGonagall echoed wryly. “Well, he won't be boring, I suppose.”

“He never was,” said Dumbledore.

\---

The sign-up sheet for Professor Potter's after school club went up on Wednesday, and had filled by tea-time next day. There were simply too many first years to let everyone come, but Harry thought that if it proved popular enough he could run it for another group after half-term.

He sought Gabriel out later in the day on Wednesday to persuade him to put his name down.

“It's basically shortcuts for doing your homework and other stuff,” he said. Gabriel looked disbelieving.

“Teachers don't show you that.”

“Well, I do,” said Harry, wondering if that was true and if he would be rubbing people up the wrong way with his club. “You'll come?”

“Maybe,” said Gabriel. That was as much as Harry could get, and he worried about it all afternoon until he went to check the noticeboard in the Entrance Hall and found that Gabriel's name was one of the first to have been signed - most likely, before Harry had spoken to him.

The first session took place just over a week later, on Thursday. Harry had no lesson before that, so he was able to clear the desks to the side of his classroom and conjure large cushions for everyone to sit on. It had an air of the early days of Dumbledore's Army, as did the hushed anticipation with which the first years filtered into the room in dribs and drabs.

He didn't know any of them well, not yet, but there were some he'd noted as seeming friendly enough, usually keen to participate in his lessons. Gabriel, as usual, entered alone, and took a cushion by the far wall.

The first spell he'd chosen to teach them was  _ Reparo _ , which neither he nor Ginny could remember being taught and which was undeniably useful. There was also something particularly magical about watching a broken object reform into a whole, which was why he'd given them all a vase to smash. They were charmed so that any rebounding shards wouldn't cause injury - but most eleven year olds, he suspected, would take great pleasure in hurling something like that to the floor without consequence. It would be interesting to see which ones were reluctant, too, he thought.

He told them to pair up, and watched with bated breath; most had come with friends, and it was entirely possible that no one would want to go with Gabriel, who had stood up but looked distinctly uncomfortable.

_ Come on _ , Harry willed.  _ Someone … someone … _

“Do you want to work together?”

His heart leapt. A tall Hufflepuff boy had approached Gabriel. He was a calm presence in lessons, Harry recalled, good in group work, the fair and sensible type - mature for his age.

Mutely, Gabriel nodded.

“I'm Oliver,” said the boy.

\---

“Gabe.”

“Didn't think we'd be smashing stuff, that's pretty cool,” said Oliver, examining the vase. “D'you want to -”

“It's OK, you do it,” said Gabe.

Oliver held the vase up, then let it slip through his hands to the floor, where it cracked instantly. He grinned at Gabe.

“Not bad,” he said. “Let's see if we can fix it, then.”

Gabe didn't like using magic - it still seemed totally ridiculous and fantastical that it was possible - but he didn't want anyone to think he was thick, so he gingerly took the wand out and pointed it at the shattered pieces.

“ _ Reparo _ .”

He felt like a fool, pointing a stick and saying a funny word, but no one else seemed to find it daft. The china moved a little, but didn't reform itself.

“He said it would take a few tries,” said Oliver, nodding at Potter, who was talking to another pair a few feet away. “He's quite cool, isn't he? How are you finding it all so far?”

Gabe didn't see the question coming, and blinked for a moment.

“Um. Yeah, it's … OK.” He swallowed. “Bit strange,” he added.

“Are your family not magic?” asked Oliver. Gabe shook his head. “It will be strange, then. It's like a whole new world, isn't it? My parents are Muggleborn - none of my grandparents are magic - and they've kept in touch with the Muggle world - you know, my dad takes me to football matches and everything -”

“You like football?” Gabe stared at him. “Who d'you support?”

“Arsenal. You?”

“Stoke. My home team.” Oliver pulled a face, and Gabe grinned. “They're not that bad!”

“Yeah … if you say so.”

“I've never been to a Premier League match,” Gabe said enviously.

“Well, there'll be one at Christmas. We've got a season ticket, you could come too.”

The invitation was so casual, conversational, but it sounded like Oliver meant it.

“Yeah?” said Gabe, trying to hide his surprise. “Well … I mean. I don't know. If I'm still here at Christmas.”

“Why, where would you be going?”

Gabe didn't know quite why he'd said that. Was it because he was so determined not to stay, whatever happened? In any case, now he had to explain that to Oliver, who seemed - well, all right actually, and sound like a right weirdo.

“Um,” he said. “I ….like, it's not really … for me, here, y'know?”

“Oh,” said Oliver. He looked a bit confused, but he wasn't looking at Gabe like he was mad, either. “OK. Well, I hope you do stay. It'd be nice to have someone around who knows about football. Even if you do support Stoke.”

Gabe found that he couldn't say anything else, so he just nodded.

“How was that?” Potter asked him at the end, catching him before he could rush out. “You seemed to be getting on well with - Oliver?”

He looked hopeful and suddenly, Gabe hated him for it. Hated him for thinking that finding a nice friend would be enough to fix this, to make him feel better, to make him want to  _ stay -  _

“No,” he lied. “I wasn't. And I'm not coming again.”


	6. Tethered

The thing about teaching, Harry was swiftly learning, was that it never stopped. Lessons might only last an hour, or two in a double period, but it wasn’t like after that you could just switch off and think about something else. Being a teacher followed you back to your office and all the way home, thoughts of marking and did-that-lesson-go-all-right and what-am-I-teaching-tomorrow chasing around your brain into the evening and night and waking up with you in the morning.   
  
As much as he wanted to focus all his attention on Gabriel Hutchinson, then, he couldn’t. Besides, he was rather at a loss as to what he should do now. Instinct told him he shouldn't push it, but he had worrying visions of coming in one morning and being told Gabriel had run away.

He was determined at the very least to stick to his promise about letting Gabriel's mother write to him. Before the after school club Gabriel had silently handed him an envelope, untidily addressed, which Harry had taken to the nearest Muggle town, put a stamp on and posted. He couldn't help wondering how other Muggle parents got around the problem of not having access to owls. As he thought about it, something had emerged from the depths of his memory - someone else’s memory, of two girls arguing on Platform 9¾. “ _He says there must be wizards working undercover in the postal service …”_

He scrawled a note to Hermione, whom he thought would probably know something about it, and if not would at least be able to come up with an idea herself.   
  
He heard back from her the next night. Ginny had gone for a bath, and James, having been a menace all evening, had had a sudden change of heart and crawled into his dad’s lap wanting a story. He’d nodded off halfway through, still draped across Harry, who now didn’t dare move in case he woke. It wasn’t a great hardship, he reflected. The living room was dimly lit, the fire blazing, and Harry was pleasantly warm in the armchair closest to the hearth. He yawned, then froze as James made a small noise; he didn’t wake, though, but snuggled deeper into Harry’s chest. Harry gazed down at his son, at the dark lashes fluttering against the curve of his cheeks, round tummy rising and falling with each even breath. It was hard to tell yet, but Harry thought he had Ginny’s nose, small and neat, and the determined set of her jaw which could be seen even in photographs documenting the Weasleys’ early years. There were no photographs of Harry at that age.   
  
There were plenty of James, though, and Harry wished he could take another one now; he seemed a different child when he slept, peaceful and still in a way he never was when awake.

Somehow he managed not to jump when there was a small _pop_ and Hermione’s head appeared in the fireplace, but it was a close thing. Gesturing as expansively as he could, he held a finger to his lips and pointed with his other hand at James. Hermione, clocking them, made no noise, but wore an expression akin to one meeting a very small and adorable puppy, which made Harry think that there would have been an awful lot of cooing had she been able to speak.   
  
“You can talk,” he told her, keeping his voice low. “Just not loudly.”   
  
“Sorry, I should have checked first - I can call back -?”   
  
“No, it’s fine. He’ll have to wake up at some point anyway to go to bed.”   
  
“He’s so gorgeous,” Hermione sighed.   
  
“Now? Yeah,” said Harry. “Two hours ago? Demon.”   
  
“I’m sure it can’t be that bad,” she protested. Realising he might be about to lose a potential babysitter, Harry laughed.   
  
“Nah, it’s not,” he lied. “How are you, anyway?”   
  
“Oh, fine.” This was punctuated with a yawn. “Busy. Ron’s been a big help, though. He’s really good at research, you know.”   
  
“He always was. Remember Buckbeak’s trial?”   
  
Hermione looked startled for a moment. “Goodness, I’d forgotten,” she admitted. “Doesn’t that seem a long time ago? Third year? Buckbeak, and my Time Turner … I don’t know how we got any homework done. _You_ spent the whole year thinking someone was trying to kill you.”   
  
“In fairness, that’s not specific to third year,” said Harry.

Hermione smiled faintly. “Do you think any of the students now have the same sort of problems? That you don’t have any idea about?”  
  
“I hope not,” said Harry. “But I haven’t asked Hagrid if he’s keeping any illegal animals lately. Maybe I should check. As for the Time Turner … no one else is that mad, Hermione.”   
  
“I thought you wanted my help!”   
  
“Sorry,” he said quickly, but Hermione was still smiling. “Go on, then. _Are_ there wizards in the postal service?”   
  
“Well, it’s interesting,” she began. Harry suppressed a groan; Hermione had a rather loose grasp on the concept of ‘interesting’. “Technically, no - it’s all done by magic, there aren’t actually people working there. But they do have a system for when a letter to a wizarding address is posted. It’s a sort of scanning process, and when an address on the wizarding census is detected, it automatically sends that letter to the nearest owl office. It works for all addresses that are listed, but not ones that are Unplottable or have other privacy protections.”   
  
“But Hogwarts is Unplottable,” Harry pointed out.   
  
“I know,” said Hermione. “Hogwarts is the exception. So many Muggles have tried to send letters there, you see. Parents, mostly. Royal Mail were getting awfully confused, it was a big job for the Ministry, because all these workers were reporting letters addressed to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. They thought it was some kind of organised practical joke. So they had to have their memories wiped, of course, and Hogwarts was added to the list of detectable addresses.”   
  
“So you could just post a letter,” said Harry, “with the student’s name, and ‘Hogwarts’ -”   
  
“- and it’ll be sent to the post office in Hogsmeade, yes.”   
  
“Is that what your parents did?”   
  
Hermione shook her head. “They didn’t know you could do that, so they made do with owls. It wasn’t easy, though. It ought to be a proper system for Muggle-borns, really.”   
  
Thinking about it for a moment, Harry said, “Do you think I could set something up on the other side? You know - like a postbox in the school? Where people could put their letters home, and it would, I dunno, transport them to a Muggle post office?”   
  
He could see the cogs of Hermione’s brain working as her eyes narrowed in thought. “It’s certainly possible,” she said. “There’s a spell I’m thinking of … Yes, I think so. Harry, that’s a lovely idea.”   
  
“Well, you know,” he said, embarrassed. “I s’pose I never really thought about how hard it must be when you’re in one world and your family is in another. I just couldn’t wait to get out of the Dursleys’.”   
  
Hermione regarded him with a sympathetic gaze. “Have you heard from them lately?”   
  
“From the Dursleys?” He was surprised. “No. I mean, I get a Christmas card from Dudley.” Dimly, he realised that he would have to let him know about the change of address. “Nothing else, though. Why?”   
  
Hermione shrugged. “They are your family. I thought you might ...”   
  
“No,” said Harry. He looked down at James. He could feel his heart beating gently against his own.   
  
Something had happened when James was born, an almost imperceptible sense of being tethered to earth in a way that he never had been before. He was no longer simply a life that had nearly been snuffed out so many times, not Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, something that meant different things to different people. He was Dad.   
  
James stirred, face scrunching up in the same way Ginny’s did when she was woken. Hermione bid him good night, promising to get back to him about the spell, and Harry carried a surprisingly unprotesting James up to bed and tucked him in.   
  
He met Ginny on the landing, coming out of the bathroom wrapped in her dressing gown. She smelled flowery, and on impulse Harry put an arm around her and pressed a kiss to her forehead.   
  
“All right?” she checked, tipping her head back to look up at him.   
  
“Definitely,” he said.   
  
\- - -   
  
October came, and its arrival brought two things that were unexpected, although not in the same way. The first was the weather, which turned unseasonably mild and remarkably sunny, meaning Harry often wandered up to school in the morning with his cloak over his arm and sleeves rolled up, his mood brightened by the sight of blue skies so early.   
  
Hermione’s spell had proved workable, and a postbox had been installed in the Entrance Hall. McGonagall and the other staff had approved the idea without question, although Harry sensed some - like Professor Heyes, the dark-eyed Charms teacher - who felt that he, the newcomer, ought to be keeping his head down rather than implementing clubs and postboxes and such. Too bad, Harry found himself thinking; it wasn’t about them. Or him, for that matter.   
  
A note was sent out to all parents letting them know of the alternative method of sending letters, and McGonagall had received several already commending her on the change, which she passed on to Harry with silent approval. The one person who didn’t seem any happier was Gabriel Hutchinson, who remained quiet and withdrawn, always on the periphery. He looked lost, and it pained Harry to see it, but he knew there was nothing he could do at this point. He couldn’t make him settle, and McGonagall agreed. “Keep an eye on him,” was her advice, and Harry did, although he longed to act.   
  
The second thing was a very different kind of unexpected.  
  
He hadn’t had much interaction with the Potions mistress, Bernice Bloom, in his first few weeks, but she always smiled at him at meals, and sometimes asked how he was doing when she passed him in the corridor. She was head of Gryffindor house, and seemed well-liked by all the students. They had exchanged a few words about Gabriel, agreeing to look out for him, and so when she tapped on Harry’s office door on a Monday afternoon he assumed, without giving it any thought, that it was regarding something similar - Gabriel, or another student. He certainly wasn’t expecting her to produce a photograph as she sat down and set it on the desk in front of him.   
  
Had he not been so thrown, he would have noticed that she appeared slightly nervous as she waited for him to look at the photograph, twisting her wedding ring around her finger and watching him intently. He didn’t notice any of this, though, because he had picked up the picture, highly confused, and studied it.   
  
It was of a group of girls, Hogwarts students, probably in their fifth or sixth year. There were about seven of them there, smiling slightly self-consciously, arms around each other - it looked like the sort of picture students took at the end of term. Ginny had lots of them in her photo albums.   
  
No sooner had the thought _why is she showing me this_ left his brain than - with a sudden jolt - he recognised one of the girls. Standing in the middle, laughing at the camera in a way he’d seen before, dark red hair tied back, which was why he’d missed her at first. She looked incredibly young, and very happy.   
  
“This …” Harry tore his eyes away from the picture and looked up at Professor Bloom. “This is my mum!” He stared at her, not comprehending. “Why do you have a picture of her?”   
  
He didn’t mean to sound rude, but she didn’t seem offended anyway. She just tapped her finger on another person in the picture. It was the girl next to Lily Evans, who was shorter, with dark blondish hair and a rather pink face, and with dawning realisation, Harry understood. Sort of.   
  
“That’s you,” he said. “Isn’t it?”   
  
“That’s me.”   
  
“You were friends with my mum?” Harry said. There was an accusatory note to his voice which he was aware of, but couldn’t help. _Why didn’t you tell me sooner_ , was its unspoken message, and Bloom seemed to pick up on it.   
  
“I wanted to give you time to settle in before I thrust this on you,” she said carefully. “I know it must be a bit of a shock … believe me, it was to me too.”   
  
“What do you mean?”   
  
“It’s a long story -”   
  
“I’m not going anywhere,” Harry said defiantly. She smiled.   
  
“I suppose I might as well tell you, then.”   
  
Harry made them both a cup of tea and they moved to the comfy armchairs by the fire. She still looked nervous, but resolved, as she began. Harry, for his part, could hardly contain his eagerness to hear something - anything - about his mother, and maybe his father, too. With Sirius and Lupin long gone, he had given up hope of ever learning anything new about the parents he had never known. Now, unbelievably, here was a connection to his mother, someone who had known her, spoken to her, been her friend.   
  
“I was in Gryffindor, with your mum,” said Bloom (Bernice? Professor? Harry wasn’t at all sure of what to call her). “And we were friends. Well, Lily was friends with everyone really, or everyone who let her. She was very kind. My family didn’t have much money, and there were some people who weren’t very nice about that. I think Lily earned herself a fair few detentions sticking up for me.”   
  
She smiled as she spoke, her eyes seeming very far away, lost in memories.   
  
“I expect you know that things in the outside world started getting very bad when we were at school - well, it came inside the castle, too. Lily had it worse than me, and our friend Mary, too, but my dad was a Muggle, so I came in for a fair amount of trouble myself. And my mother was scared … we were all scared, but … in the summer before our sixth year one of our friends was killed.”   
  
Her voice wobbled; she took a deep breath before carrying on. Harry felt like he should tell her it was OK, he didn’t need to know - but he was gripped.   
  
“Griselda Fawley. She was a pureblood. Her parents were activists - they wrote to the papers about Muggleborn rights, they protested, they made a big scene, and - and they were killed. It was the 31st of August. We didn’t hear about it until we got to school the next day. All the way we were wondering why Griselda hadn’t shown up. Missed the train, we thought - she was a bit scatty like that.”   
  
She took another deep breath. Her eyes had that distant look again, as if she was there, her own personal Pensieve, reliving the moment. Harry almost wanted to see for himself, so he didn’t have to hear it.   
  
“We were all - it was - that first night, and the day after, with the empty bed … By the end of the week my mother showed up. Pack your trunk, she said. I think I was too numb to protest, and I was scared, anyway. I went up to the dorm and Lily was there. She begged me not to go.   
  
““We can _fight_ this,” she said, and I thought she sounded mad. She’d been crying but she was angry as well. I told her it was no good.   
  
““You ought to get out too,” I said to her. I think I saw the - the intent she had, and I was so worried for her then, because she was friends with someone we all knew was going to be a Death Eater and she wasn’t bothered much about aggravating the others. I could see that she might end up in their crosshairs. So I told her she should go. Now, while she could.   
  
“She started crying again, but she looked stubborn as well. She always was. “I can’t,” she said. So I went, and she stayed, and …”   
  
It was several long moments before she spoke again. The atmosphere in the little room was thick with emotion; Harry could almost picture it, the two girls from the photograph, faced with something they should never have gone through.   
  
“That was the last time I saw her,” said Bernice. “We wrote letters afterwards. My parents and I went to France and distanced ourselves from the magical community. I was homeschooled. Lily never wrote much about that sort of news, though, just about school. She told me when she started going out with James Potter - I can’t say I was really surprised - and when she left school she told me they were getting married. I don’t think it was either one of us who stopped writing in the end, really - I was busy with my job, and Lily … well, I hoped that she was just busy too, though I knew that she might have been killed. I had no idea, remember, what was going on.”   
  
“Didn’t you want to know?” Harry asked, too curious not to. “I mean, this was your home, and your friends -”   
  
Bernice shrugged. “A part of me, perhaps, but in a way it was also out of sight, out of mind, if you see what I mean. It sounds awfully callous, but I made new friends, I had a job, I had a new life. I wasn’t the only one who ran, you know, not that I’m trying to make excuses.”   
  
“No,” said Harry. “I get it.” He wasn’t sure he did, really - it was not in his nature to run and hide when anyone needed help, but he knew that not everyone was like that, and at the end of the day he could see why staying in the thick of it would seem foolish, when you had family to keep safe. “So you didn’t know about - me?”   
  
“Not until some years later,” said Bernice. “If my mother knew that the war had ended she didn’t tell me. Afraid, I suspect, that it hadn’t really, and I’d want to go back. By that point I had settled in France. I met Alain, my husband, who worked for the International Relations office in the _Ministère._ It wasn’t until our first daughter was born that he asked me if I ever wanted to go back to England, now the war was over. Well, I hadn’t known that it was, and I supposed he assumed I must know, so he never thought to tell me! At that point I was curious to know what had happened, so Alain found me all that he could and I spent most of a day reading about it all. It was - a shock isn’t the right word, really. To discover that it was Lily who had …” She shook her head. “It was strange, because I’d known for years that she might be dead, and I’d not let myself think about it. But finding out for certain, seeing it in print, seeing her picture there … it really hit me. And having just become a mother myself, finding out that she’d had a baby who was now an orphan …”   
  
“Yeah,” said Harry, who’d had similar thoughts when James was born, trying to imagine him left on a doorstep and feeling ill at the image.   
  
“You don’t know how strange it is to have you sitting here in front of me,” she said, smiling. She seemed a little more composed now, more like the woman Harry had first met. “After I found out about you, I kept in touch with the news again. I read that interview you did and I knew it was starting again. I was never a dueller, and I had my girls, so I didn’t come back, but I followed it this time. Then when Horace Slughorn retired, a fellow potioneer recommended me for the job, and I … well, I thought it was time.   
  
“I had vague notions of getting in touch with you once I got back to England, but I never got around to it - until you came to me. And finally, I had no excuse.”   
  
“They weren’t excuses,” said Harry. He could have been angry, he thought, that she hadn’t got in touch with him before, but … everyone had their reasons, didn’t they? Lupin hadn’t, either. “You have a family, and a life and everything.”

He couldn’t help looking at her and taking in the lines on her face, the creases around her eyes, marks of having lived, and wondering what his mother would look like now. When he met her eyes, she seemed to be looking at him in the same sort of way.   
  
“You have a family too, I hear,” she said, breaking her gaze and indicating the pictures in frames. “I have to admit, that makes me feel very old.”   
  
Harry laughed and brought down one of the photographs to show her.   
  
“James is two. And Ginny’s expecting - it shouldn’t be long now. You should come round,” he added, surprising himself. “For … for tea, or something.”   
  
“That would be lovely,” said Bernice. “If you’re sure.”   
  
Harry glanced at the photograph he still held in his hands. “Will you … will you tell me things? About Mum?” The word he’d never had cause to use sounded foreign and oddly childish in his voice.   
  
“Of course I will,” Bernice said gently. “Anything I can.”   
  
“Now?” he blurted before he could stop himself.   
  
She smiled, eyes darting to her watch. “Maybe not everything now. I’m not going anywhere, as you said, but we do both have jobs, don’t we?”   
  
“Right,” said Harry, feeling foolish. “No, of course, yeah.”   
  
“How about one thing now? One question?”   
  
One question? One thing he wanted to know about his mother? There were a million things; he wanted to know everything about her. His mind raced through a dozen options before he settled on one, not really knowing why, except that it seemed somewhat apt.   
  
“What did she want to do when she left school? For a job?”   
  
If she was surprised by his choice, Bernice didn’t show it. She smiled again.   
  
“It’s funny you should ask,” she said. “We used to joke about it … there were so many magical jobs she couldn’t have done in the Muggle world, but the one thing she felt drawn to … she would have been wonderful - she was ever so funny -”   
  
“What was it?” asked Harry, intrigued by the amusement on her face.   
  
“She wanted to be a teacher,” said Bernice.   
  
\- - -   


Gabe was drifting.   
  
We often don’t realise things about ourselves until we look back, or until someone else points it out, and what Gabe couldn’t see was that he was pinning himself firmly in misery. Subconsciously, he felt that by settling in, by letting himself enjoy things, he would be giving in to the change which he so resisted and accepting that this thing about himself was true. That he wasn’t who he thought he was. That his life from this point on would be different from what it might have been, whatever that was.   
  
The others bothered him the most. The Muggle-borns, that was what they were called, those of them that hadn’t come from magical families. The rest of them seemed fine. They had friends, laughed, appeared totally fine with this new reality.   
  
Gabe was just there, existing in it, and he’d had enough.   


He was going to get expelled. He would do something enormous, and get himself expelled, and go back to his life and forget this whole thing ever happened.   
  
And maybe then he’d feel like he was walking on solid ground again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope people like Bernice! There are lots of little headcanons I have about Harry's future that I hope to include in this universe, and one of them is Harry finding out more about his family.  
> I didn't plan for Lily's intended job to be a teacher, actually - I thought about her character and what seemed likely, and that was what I hit on in the end, with her being funny and kind but also not taking nonsense. 
> 
> Once again, thank you to everyone who has commented and left kudos!


	7. The Mysterious Talking White Horse

_How to get expelled from school_ _  
_ _Things that will get you expelled_ _  
_ _  
_ Gabe didn’t have a computer at home, but they had them at school, and he and his friends had spent many an IT lesson discovering the wonders of Google. They’d never searched for anything useful (their own names and the rudest things they could get away with, mostly) and he couldn’t help regretting it now - now, when he would have given anything to be able to bring up the internet to help him. Unsurprisingly, the library in _this_ school didn’t have any books with ideas for getting yourself expelled.   
  
(It was perhaps a good thing that Hogwarts did not hold a public record of reasons students had been excluded. Had Gabe seen ‘hiding a giant spider believed to have killed another student’, he might have just run away on the spot.)   
  
Maybe it was the attitude of his teachers, but Gabe had always thought of himself as one of those kids - you know, the ones with _behaviour problems_ . Looking back now, he was realising that he’d never actually done anything really bad. Talking back and messing around in lessons were the main reasons he’d been in trouble, and they definitely weren’t expellable offences. And so he was stuck. Because while he’d originally thought that kicking off and throwing a desk at a teacher or something would be easy … well, it didn’t seem so easy when he was sitting in the classroom and trying to work up the courage to do it. He wasn’t an angry person, not really - nor had he ever been violent (aside from kicking things when he was in a temper, but who didn’t do that?). And the truth was, whenever he thought of doing something like that he just pictured his mum’s face. More specifically, the expression she’d worn whenever he’d got into trouble at school. A kind of weary disappointment that made him feel like he’d let her down irreparably.   
  
But what was the alternative? He hadn’t actually seen his mum’s face for over a month. And he missed her.   
  
It was this he was thinking about at breakfast one morning when someone sat down next to him on the bench with a thump.   
  
“Hi,” said the someone. At first, Gabe ignored him; no one deliberately sat with him at mealtimes, let alone spoke to him. Then he glanced sideways, at the black curly hair and friendly, open face, and realised it was Oliver, the boy from the after school club.   
  
“Oh,” he said. “Hi.” He frowned. “Aren’t you meant to stay at your table?”   
  
He meant the house tables, but he didn’t like to acknowledge the existence of these stupid houses. He didn’t want to think about what that old hat had said to him on his first evening.   
  
“Don’t think so,” Oliver shrugged. “There’s no rule about it. So, I got a letter from my dad - he says Stoke won at the weekend.”   
  
“They did?” Gabe couldn’t help turning to face him fully, his interest piqued. “Who were they - wait, why was your dad telling you about Stoke?”   
  
It was Oliver’s turn to shrug.   
  
“I told him you supported them in my last letter.”   
  
“You told him about me?”   
  
“Yeah,” said Oliver, unperturbed. He shot Gabe a look that was hard to read. “You haven’t left yet, then.”   
  
Gabe prodded dispiritedly at his cereal. “Nope.”   
  
There was a beat of silence. He glanced at Oliver again. There was something about his face that made Gabe want to talk to him.   
  
“I want to get expelled,” he blurted out. “But I … don’t know how.”   
  
“Oh,” said Oliver, only sounding mildly surprised. “OK. I think you’d have to do something big to get expelled.”   
  
“I know. But I don’t want to hurt anyone or … do anything really bad, y’know?”   
  
“Yeah.” Oliver looked thoughtful.   
  
“Would ...” Gabe hated how hopeful he sounded, and the fact that he was asking for help, but needs must. “Would you help me? Think of something?” _  
_   
He was half-expecting Oliver to say no, of course not; he was a good student, and wouldn’t get involved with any kind of trouble. That would be the sensible answer.   
  
But he didn’t. In fact, he almost looked pleased to be asked.   
  
\- - -   
  
“Oof.”   
  
Ginny breathed in sharply. A vice had tightened around her middle, a fierce cramping sensation spiking in her abdomen.   
  
“Mummy.” James tugged at her sleeve. “PLAY.”   
  
The cramping subsided, but dull pain was blossoming in her lower back. She clenched her teeth and turned her attention back to James, to carry on making her best dragon noises. (“More big,” was James’s note for improvement.)   
  
“Ooooh.” She broke off again, hand flying to her stomach. James looked disgruntled.   
  
“Mummy! Play!”   
  
“Hold on, sweetie.” Deep breaths. “Mummy needs to call Nana, OK?”   
  
With great difficulty she knelt in front of the fire, her back making its objections known, and tossed a handful of Floo powder into the flames.   
  
“The Burrow!”   
  
Her parents’ kitchen came into view. Her mother was sorting laundry at the table, humming to herself.   
  
“Mum? I think the baby’s coming.”   
  
\- - -   
  
Professor Potter’s fifth year class was gripped. No one was passing notes, or whispering; all eyes were fixed on the man sitting on the desk at the front, swinging his legs and speaking into the silence.   
  
At least half the class had a fairly sizeable crush on him, granted - but he was also pretty captivating when he talked about his subject.   
  
Harry knew none of this, though; he was just pleased that he had their attention.   
  
“Magic already gives us power that others don’t have,” he was saying. “But there are some who aren’t content with that. The appeal of the Dark Arts is in the extra power they give. Power over people’s minds, bodies … power over life and death.” He paused. “The Imperius Curse is a spell that gives the caster power over people’s actions. It can make them do things they would never do in their right mind.”   
  
_And I’ve used it_ , he finished in his head. No, he wasn’t going to share that bit of information, and he was hoping no one was going to ask.   
  
A hand shot up. He flinched.   
  
“Nina?”   
  
“You know how you said we were going to start looking at the Unforgivable Curses, sir?” she said tentatively. Harry relaxed slightly. “Well, I had a look in the library and I was reading about the Killing Curse …”   
  
“We’re not looking at that yet.”   
  
“No, but I was wondering … the book said only one person has ever survived it -”   
  
Harry un-relaxed.   
  
“Is known to have survived it,” he corrected. “Yes. I think so.”   
  
Nina looked like she wasn’t quite done with what she said to say. Inwardly grimacing, he let her continue.   
  
“Um,” she said. “The book said it’s you, though?”   
  
Others were turning round to look at her. Most seemed confused.   
  
“What’s him?”   
  
“The only person to have survived the Killing Curse,” said Nina.   
  
“Known to,” said Harry automatically. “Er. Yes. Technically …”   
  
As the class erupted into a cacophony of disbelief and excitement, he felt a pang of longing for that hushed silence. It had been nice while it lasted, he thought ruefully, as had the near anonymity he’d experienced so far, with his past remaining largely that - in the past.   
  
Hands were going up.   
  
“How did you -?”   
  
“Who tried to kill you?”   
  
“What does it _feel_ like?”   
  
“Well, I wouldn’t recommend it,” Harry said weakly, in response to the last question. The other two he wasn’t going to touch with a barge pole, not today. “Er, can we get back on track?”   
  
Unfortunately it looked like that answer to that was ‘no’, and the class might have said so, had not another distraction arrived in the form of silvery-white mist that appeared out of thin air next to Harry’s desk and resolved itself into a magnificent horse, which tossed its mane before speaking.   
  
“Hi Harry,” said Ginny’s voice cheerfully. “Listen, don’t panic, but I’m in labour - Mum’s with me at the hospital and Dad’s got James, so there’s nothing to worry about and I definitely don’t want you to rush over here. Whenever you can get here is fine. OK? I’ll see you soon. Love you.”   
  
As the Patronus faded away, there were several things going through Harry’s head, struggling to make themselves heard above the chatter of the class. The first was that he needed to get to Ginny as soon as humanly possible. The second was that he couldn’t very well dash off and leave his class unsupervised. The third was that he had nearly missed James’ birth, and Ginny had been in pain for hours without him.   
  
The fourth was a conversation they’d had a few weeks earlier.   
  
“We ought to think about what happens when you have the baby,” Harry had said. “It’s due on the 18th, and that’s a Tuesday -”   
  
“It won’t come on the due date,” said Ginny. “Weasleys never do. I was two weeks early.”   
  
“You also keep telling me that Weasleys only have boys, and you’re kind of proof that they don’t.”   
  
“I was an outlier!”   
  
“Come on, don’t be so hard on yourself,” said Harry. “Just because you’re wrong doesn’t mean you’re a liar.”   
  
Then Ginny had thrown a cushion at him, and he had thrown one back, and they never did decide what would happen if she went into labour while he was at school.   
  
(Which, as we know, she did. On Tuesday, 18th October.)   
  
“OK,” he said aloud, trying to stay calm. He checked his watch; forty-five minutes of the lesson left.

Forty-five minutes. Would that make a difference?

“Aren't you going, sir?” someone at the back asked.

“I can’t leave you lot, can I?”

“You can,” said someone else, hopefully. “We'll be good.”

That made him smile, at least. He opened his mouth to say something sarcastic, but before he could, Pandora - one of the prefects - stood up, and rushed from the room.

“Where's she going?” said Harry, bewildered. He didn't get an answer until a few minutes later, when Pandora the prefect returned.

With the Deputy Headmistress in tow.

“Professor, I hear congratulations are in order,” said Professor Devereaux, joining him at the front in a swish of tailored robes and some fancy-smelling perfume. “But I think you have somewhere else to be, so shall I take it from here?”

Harry stared at her blankly.

“I - I wasn't going to -”

“I know. But you should. Go on - we'll be fine, won't we, class?”

Feeling remarkably touched as the class chorused their assent, Harry tried to voice his gratitude: it came out more as an incoherent babble, but he thought Professor Devereaux got the point, because she patted his arm and genially waved him on his way.

As lessons were in session, there were only a few sixth- and seventh-years and ghosts who were later able to attest to the fact that Professor Potter had been seen sprinting through the halls like he was being chased by a Chimera, robes flying, glasses askew. It was then left to the fifth-years to tell the tale of the mysterious talking white horse (no one had yet experienced one of Professor Potter's Patronus lessons; he was rumoured to be the very best, but they would have to wait to find that out) that had materialised in their class and told Potter that he was having a baby.

The Headmistress, upon hearing this, did not appear surprised in the slightest.

Harry, meanwhile, was causing a stir elsewhere by bursting into the reception of St. Margaret’s Hospital for Magical Maternity with much more frenzy than was strictly necessary.

“My baby's having a wife!” he shouted at the nonplussed Welcome Witch, who raised her eyebrows.

“I mean - my wife - my wife is having a baby,” he managed. “Ginny Potter?”

The witch consulted a chart. “Down the hall, fourth door on your right.”

Harry, remembering the scene he'd burst in on nearly three years earlier, braced himself for the sound of pained screaming as he opened the door of Ginny's room. What he wasn't prepared for was finding his wife lying back on the bed, flipping through _Witch Weekly_ with an expression of mild disgust. She looked up when he came in, and it turned to exasperation.

“I told you not to rush over!” she exclaimed.

“You knew I would,” Harry pointed out. “How are you doing? Are you OK?”

“I'm fine, but it'll be a while yet, there was no need -”

“Too late,” said Harry, grinning at her. She pulled a face.

“Mum's just gone to the loo, and the midwitch should be back soon.”

“Was James all right?”

“A bit confused, but he was pleased about going with Dad.” Ginny tossed the magazine to Harry as he sat down next to her. “Voting's opened for Britain's Sexiest Wizard.”

“Have you voted?”

“Yep. Oliver Wood.” Ginny pretended to examine her fingernails idly, deliberately not meeting Harry's look of mingled amusement and outrage.

“You can't say something like that when he actually is better-looking than me. Why couldn't you have picked - I don't know - Mundungus Fletcher?”

“Do you honestly think Mundungus Fletcher is one of the contenders for Britain's Sexiest Wiz-”

Ginny’s words ended in a gasp, face contorting with pain. Harry reached for her hand and let her grip it tightly, his heart racing. He hated seeing her in any kind of distress, and even more the fact that he could only hover beside her offering useless words of encouragement. In the background, he was dimly aware of Molly and a midwitch entering and speaking to Ginny. He kept his gaze fixed on her, hoping that she would feel his silent gratitude and pride that she was doing this for them.   
  
\- - - 

Gabe daydreamed his way through morning lessons, paying only cursory attention to what was going on and barely noticing the teachers’ weary expressions as he made lackluster attempts at the tasks. He suspected that they had been told to be lenient with him - which was annoying, as it meant it would likely only be harder to get expelled. The work still seemed so foreign and strange that he couldn’t bring himself to engage with it at all; it felt like accepting that this was real.

He remained lost in thought through lunch, half-hoping that Oliver would come and join him again, and so the owl that landed next to his juice went unnoticed until someone tapped him on the shoulder and pointed it out.

“Oi - that's for you.”

Gabe stared at it. The barn owl - he had never seen one so close before - was clutching a letter in its beak. He gingerly reached out and extracted it, half fearing that the owl would attack him at any moment. It didn’t, though, taking off again as soon as Gabe had the letter.   
  
The letter from his mum.   
  
It was in a plain brown envelope, the ones his mum kept in the kitchen drawer and used for writing to the council or electricity company when they sent scary formal-sounding notices about late payments. Just the sight of it made him feel pathetically wobbly. Even though he was dying to read it there and then, he forced himself to finish his lunch before hurrying up to his empty dormitory. He drew the hangings around his bed before extracting the envelope again and tearing it open.   
_  
_ _It was lovely to get your letter,_ his mum wrote. It wasn’t her usual rushed scrawl, but looked like she had taken her time over it, something that made his insides glow. _I know you weren’t happy about all of this, but I hope you’re settling in and making the most of it. I don’t think I told you that when I was a little girl I loved stories about magic and would have given anything to find out it was real - so the fact that my own son is a wizard (!) and gets to learn how to do magic is just amazing. Between you and me the school here doesn’t sound very good at all, from what I’ve heard from other parents, so I’m very glad that you are getting a special education in what sounds like a lovely place. I bet it’s beautiful up in Scotland. We’ll have to see about getting you a camera at Christmas so you can take pictures. What are your lessons like? I’d love to hear all about it. Things are the same here, work is - well, work! - and Ruby is doing well at school. We both miss you lots, but it’s giving us something to look forward to at Christmas knowing we’ll see you again._ _  
_ _  
_ _I really hope you’re having a good time and doing your best - it would make me so happy to hear that you were loving it as much as I know I would. I would be over the moon to learn all about real magic, so do it for me if not for you!!_ _  
_ _  
_ _Miss you and love you so much,_ _  
_ _Mum_ _  
_ _  
_ Alone behind the hangings, Gabe let himself cry, hugging his knees to his chest and burying his face in them until his robes were damp with tears. He missed his mum so much it hurt, but he also felt a terrible sense of shame that he had let her down again. _It would make me so happy to hear that you were loving it as much as I know I would_ … he tried to imagine her reaction if he told her that he was miserable and hardly making any effort at all. Perhaps she would find out anyway, he thought suddenly - did Hogwarts send reports home? Even so, she would know when he went home and couldn’t tell her much at all because he’d barely listened.   
  
And if he were expelled … deliberately expelled …   
  
Downstairs he heard the bell ring for afternoon lessons, but he stayed where he was, aware that he might get in trouble but unable to care much. He had no idea what to do. He had to leave, didn’t he? He didn’t belong here. He wasn’t magical.   
  
He wasn’t sure what made him do it, but he found himself taking his wand out of his bag and running his fingers along it, tracing the whorls and patterns of the wood. Hawthorn, the old man in the shop had said, with unicorn hair, which had made his mum gasp and point out later how unfair it was that they couldn’t tell Ruby unicorns were real. It had just seemed daft to Gabe. It was a stick of wood. What could it really do?   
  
Still …   
  
From his bedside table he picked up one of the ballpoint pens Potter had given him and snapped the plastic clip off the lid. Holding his wand loosely in his hand, he pointed it at the pieces.   
  
_“Reparo_ .”   
  
The clip reattached itself.   
  
Gabe picked it up again, hardly daring to believe his eyes. It was exactly like it was before he’d snapped it. And he’d repaired it.   
  
With _magic_ .   
  
There was a strange feeling in his chest, something he couldn’t remember feeling for a long time. It took a minute or two to realise that it was excitement: budding excitement, just a glimmer, but he felt oddly exhilarated. It wasn’t the wand, it was dawning on him. It was him. _He_ was magic. He could do magic.   
  
He had a sudden vision of himself back at home at Christmas, proudly demonstrating what he could do to his amazed and delighted mother. He thought about her, about all the times he’d seen her cry, about how she worked endless shifts to make enough to provide for him and Ruby and always looked tired, and how she still got sad about his dad leaving, even though she didn’t like to talk about it, and how she, of all people, could use a little magic. He had some sense - although he couldn’t fully comprehend, at this age - of what the knowledge that magic was real would mean to someone who had been worn down at the heel of life, where every day was just another day to get through and run around after others and crawl into bed at the end and think how it wasn’t supposed to be like this.   
  
What would Gabe returning home in disgrace do to her? She’d have to explain to everyone and make arrangements for him to go to the local school and worry about what sort of an education he was getting and …   
  
He couldn’t do it. Not to his mum.   
  
_Do it for me if not for you_ , she’d written. 

Gabe’s heart was thudding. Impulsively, he yanked the hangings back and leapt up, caught by a sudden desire to talk to someone, to tell them about his mum’s letter and the decision he’d made. Without really thinking about, he found that his feet were leading him in one particular direction, moving quicker than normal in his eagerness to hear and see the reaction to his revelation.   
  
“Gabriel!”   
  
Professor Bloom had just come out of her office and spotted him. She didn’t look too happy.   
  
“You weren’t in lessons this afternoon,” she said. “Were you ill?”   
  
For a moment, Gabe considered lying, then decided against it. In as few words as possible, he explained that he had received a letter from home and it had upset him. Professor Bloom seemed sympathetic, but she shook her head when he finished.   
  
“I understand, but make sure it doesn’t happen again,” she told him. “I know you’re having trouble settling in, Gabriel, but really … you are falling behind, you know. And I say that not to tell you off, but because I can see you have potential. It seems a shame to waste it.”   
  
Gabe nodded shamefacedly. “I … er, I’ll try harder.”   
  
He had never made such a promise to a teacher before, and was surprised to find that he really meant it.   
  
Professor Bloom smiled. “Good. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”   
  
He carried on along the corridor: there was no light under the door when he stopped outside it, so he was about to head for the classroom when he heard Bloom’s voice again, calling him.   
  
“Are you looking for Professor Potter? He’s away, I’m afraid.”   
  
“Oh,” said Gabe. He chewed his lip, unsure as to exactly why he felt so very disappointed to hear that - and so strangely let down.   
  
\- - -   
  
After the commotion and volume of labour, the room seemed remarkably quiet. Sometime later, when everyone had been checked over and Molly had gone to tell the family, Harry kissed Ginny’s sweaty forehead and leant his own against hers for a moment, revelling in the closeness between them. His heart felt as if it might burst.   
  
“You’re amazing,” he told her in wonderment, his voice hushed. She laughed, then winced as she shifted on the bed.   
  
“Honestly? I’d take a few Bludgers over that anytime.” She glanced down at the well-wrapped bundle in her arms. “Worth it, though.”   
  
They both gazed at their son, taking in his every tiny perfect feature.   
  
“He’s got your hair already, look,” Ginny said, stroking the black strands with one finger.   
  
“Sorry about that,” Harry told his sleeping son. “You can always shave it off if you want to.”   
  
“No, he can’t,” said Ginny at once. “I like it.”   
  
Harry grinned and put his arm around her.   
  
“We never decided on a name, did we?”   
  
“Well, we only had nine months, give us a break.”   
  
“You had mentioned your granddad,” said Harry, remembering. He knew Ginny had been very fond of her maternal grandfather, who had passed away when she was nine. “Using his name, I mean.”   
  
Ginny looked at him in surprise. “Alfred? D’you think?”   
  
“We could call him Alfie,” he suggested. “I dunno. I like it. Up to you, though.”   
  
“Alfred,” Ginny repeated, tracing the line of their son’s nose with a fingertip. “It would be lovely to name him after Granddad. And …”   
  
She didn’t finish, but Harry knew what she meant: that the second part of the name served as a nod to her lost brother.   
  
“He sort of looks like a little old man, don’t you think?”   
  
“Wise, or grumpy?”   
  
“Both. I do like it,” she decided. “Alfred. What about a middle name?”   
  
Harry already knew what his answer to that was.   
  
“We used my dad’s name,” he said. “I’d like to use yours, too. If you want to.”   
  
Ginny pressed her lips together tightly, the first tell-tale that she was crying. “He’d _love_ that.”   
  
“Would you?”   
  
She nodded fiercely, unable to speak.   
  
“Alfred Arthur,” Harry murmured, cradling his son’s head with one hand, which looked comically large next to the tiny baby, whose hands were balled into fists as he slept. At times like these, it seemed like it was another world in which he had thought of Ginny as he’d walked towards what he thought was certain death. To his students, he was sure, the fact that he had survived it would be the most amazing thing, but to him - well, it was this; the fact that he was here, living: a husband, a father of two.  
  
Later, James’ grandparents would bring him to meet his brother, and he would be surprisingly well-behaved as he sat on the bed with his mum and peered at the baby in her arms. And they would be asked about the name, and both Molly and Arthur would cry (the former far more hysterically) upon hearing it; it would, later still, be met with approval from the rest of the family, who would be falling over themselves to meet the newest Potter.   
  
The next day they would bring him home, to the nursery, whose ceiling Luna had painted beautifully with a moon and stars; and from that very first day, they would call him Al.   
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to diva-gonzo on tumblr who suggested the name when I asked for help. I explained there that while I could see the reasoning for Albus Severus, for me personally, it didn't feel right, especially when the three children are largely named for Harry's 'people', and not Ginny. However, I had built the character of Al in my head over the years and couldn't find another name that seemed to fit, so ... I hope people are happy with that decision - it is an AU, after all! 
> 
> Once again, thank you to everyone who has commented etc. - I feel ridiculously excited whenever I see an email in my inbox!!


	8. A Constant Presence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you to all those who have read, left kudos and commented. I caught up on replying to comments last week, so apologies if you were spammed with emails!  
> I hope this chapter was worth the wait - it's a long one, but it's likely a case of quantity over quality ...

* * *

Al was a quiet baby, or at least that was the conclusion reached by the assortment of friends and family that flocked to Inglenook in the week following his birth. People liked making comments in this vein, Harry had noticed. It seemed necessary for some reason to make judgments about a baby’s character based on a hour’s worth of cooing over them sleeping in their cot. They never said anything bad, though (not to your face); every comment had to be sugar-coated. James had been described as ‘spirited’. 

Harry did have to concede that Al was thus far much quieter than his older brother, although that wasn’t hard. That was another thing - when it came to babies, everyone suddenly felt bound to draw comparisons between the new child and all known relatives, knowingly pointing out similarities they had apparently spotted. (“Ooh - he’s got Great Aunt Ethel’s eyebrows.”) Molly was particularly guilty of this.  
  
“He’s definitely got your ears, dear,” she told Ginny with great conviction, over tea in Inglenook's sunny kitchen. Across the table, Arthur had Al in his arms and was gazing at him with an expression not dissimilar to the one Harry had seen him wear when looking at a vacuum cleaner, a combination of tenderness and awe. “He’s very good, isn’t he? Now, Bill was ever so quiet, hardly a sound …”  
  
“We came in for a terrible shock when Charlie was born,” said Arthur, smiling.  
  
“Was I quiet?” asked Ginny.  
  
“Well, no, dear ... you had a rather … _strong_ personality, shall we say.”  
  
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” she said obstinately, elbowing Harry in the ribs to stop him snickering. His laughter subsided as Molly went on to describe at length how Al’s lack of volume boded very well, as Bill had been prefect and Head Boy and was very successful; it struck him that there was no one to jump in with a comment about what _he_ had been like as a baby. For a moment, he pictured his mother and father there at the table with them, aged like Bernice with silver threads in their hair and fine lines around their eyes and mouths, signs of a life lived. “Oh, there was non-stop crying every night for two months - and don’t get me started on Harry,” his mother might say, cheekily, and his dad would pretend to be offended, then say something about how Harry’s Quidditch skills had been evident straight away …  
  
But he could not dwell on wistful thoughts for long, as life with a toddler and a newborn was far from plain sailing. He had been granted two weeks’ paternity leave, having sent his notes and plans to the school, and although he was grateful for the time with his family, it did not please him to think of someone else taking his classes. He was, however, slightly mollified to learn that it was Cadmus Heyes, the Charms teacher, who was covering for him; according to Neville (who brought with him an enormous ‘Congratulations’ card signed by all the staff when he and Luna - Al’s godparents - visited) Heyes was not especially popular, being thorough but strict, and Neville had been asked when Professor Potter would be back at least twice a day.  
  
“Your higher NEWT class is giving Heyes a bit of grief, apparently,” he reported during his visit. Harry had to suppress a grin; his seventh years were a lively bunch, containing four Gryffindors who seemed intent on carrying on their House’s legacy for spawning troublemakers.  
  
“Let me guess - Jones, Merrythought, Chowdhry and Flume?”  
  
“Got it in one. He gave them detention, but they didn’t seem too bothered.”  
  
Luna, sporting blue feathery earrings that were actually quite nice, was holding Al. “He is very sweet, isn’t he?” she said, her large pale eyes fixed unblinkingly on him. “I think I should quite like one, someday. What about you, Neville?”  
  
For a moment Neville looked utterly petrified, thinking - Harry guessed - that Luna was asking him if he wanted to father her child. He relaxed when he realised that wasn’t what she’d meant, only to look uncomfortable again seconds later.  
  
“I suppose … someday,” he mumbled, adding disconsolately, “I need to find someone who wants to have one with me, first.”  
  
“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” said Ginny, squeezing his shoulder. “You’ll find them, don’t worry.”  
  
“Well, he likes that nice Hufflepuff girl who works in the Three Broomsticks,” said Luna vaguely, “but he doesn’t want to ask her out. I’m not sure why, I expect she’d say yes.”  
  
“What - Hannah?” said Ginny in surprise. “Hannah Abbott?”  
  
Neville’s round face turned bright pink. “That was a secret!” he told Luna hotly.  
  
“Oh, was it?” She looked unperturbed. “I thought Ginny might be able to help, you see. She’s very confident, and you aren’t really.”  
  
“Of course I’ll help - if you want me to, Neville,” said Ginny, before Luna could say anything else. “Why don’t you come round on Saturday, and you can tell me a bit more. Hannah’s really nice,” she added encouragingly. “I think you’d be great together.”  
  
Neville looked slightly more reassured, but still not entirely happy about having his love life discussed openly in the Potters’ kitchen. Harry, who didn’t blame him, shot him a look that he hoped was both comforting and apologetic.

“Oh, look!” Luna exclaimed, her attention returning to Al. “He’s smiling!”  
  
“I think that’s wind,” said Harry.  
  
“Really?” Her expression turned to one of mild interest. “Oh, well, I suppose wind is quite funny, isn’t it?”  
  
\- - -  
The eve of Harry’s return to school fell on the last day of October. He couldn’t help but feel that this was fortunate, as things always seemed to go awry when he spent Hallowe’en at Hogwarts; he also found himself plagued by rather morbid thoughts during the day, a sense of melancholy settling around him like a thick fog no matter how hard he tried to shake it off. There was no doubt that he was happier than he had ever been at this point in his life (a point he never thought he’d reach), but on the date of his parents’ death he seemed to see everything from a different perspective. He was twenty-five, an age they’d never seen. He had two children; how many might they have had? He doubted, too, that he would ever be able to forget the scenes he had witnessed through Voldemort’s eyes, his parents’ final moments, and they tried to creep into the forefront of his mind all throughout the day.  
  
Ginny responded to his mood by simply being a constant presence, punctuating her speech with a brush of her hand on his arm, a brief kiss on the top of his head: her natural warmth meant it was hard to sink too far into doldrums, and he was always drawn to her; she was like the first spring sunshine after a long winter, giving him hope and lifting his spirits.  
  
Night drew in and the house retreated into stillness, lights dimming, voices hushed so as not to wake James and Al, who possessed that peculiar ability to swing between either sleeping through a twenty-strong brass ensemble performing beside them, or waking at the sound of someone yawning two streets away, with no middle ground whatsoever. Harry hung his freshly laundered robes up in the bedroom, packed his bag and settled down in the living room for a last hour in front of the fire with Ginny, curled up on the sofa like a cat. Some late night chat show was on the wireless; they were a dime a dozen these days, but none so popular as the one hosted by Lee Jordan, who was the star of the WWN. He often joked that he still found it odd having free reign to say whatever he liked without being shouted at by McGonagall.  
  
It was because he had just thought of her that for a brief moment, Harry thought he was imagining things when he heard a faint _pop_ and saw Professor McGonagall’s head in the fire - until Ginny let out a small squeak of surprise, and he gathered that it wasn’t a figment of his imagination; the Headmistress _was_ there (sort of) in their living room. Ginny, who was in her pyjamas, appeared to have gone red, although it was hard to tell in the firelight.  
  
“Professor!” Harry hurried to the hearth, startled by the grim expression she wore. “Is everything all right?”  
  
“We have a situation.” Never one to mince words, she spoke as briskly as if she were explaining the homework she had set. “The Head Girl was returning to her dormitory when she heard two unfamiliar male voices conferring around the corner. She alerted me at once. They appeared to be looking for something.”  
  
Harry was distantly aware of Ginny rushing from the room.  
  
“You mean - someone’s broken in?”  
  
“It seems so, and I would rather apprehend them by stealth, so as to minimise risk to anyone’s safety. Longbottom is away for the night, else I would have enlisted him … I believe you have a map?”  
  
“Yes - of course,” said Harry, his mind whirring. “I’ll -”  
  
He broke off; Ginny had returned, thrusting the Marauder’s Map and his father’s Invisibility Cloak into his hands. McGonagall eyed her approvingly.  
  
Harry drew his wand and revealed the Map’s contents; he had not done so for years now … he scanned the intricate ink lines, passing over the student dormitories, searching for anyone out of place … but something was wrong; the dot labelled _Helena Ravenclaw,_ the Grey Lady, was travelling along the second floor, but as Harry watched, her dot disappeared halfway down the corridor, flickering momentarily before simply vanishing.  
  
“Where did Isobel hear them?” he asked McGonagall, not removing his gaze from the parchment.  
  
“In the east wing, on the fifth floor.”  
  
“There’s a passage to Hogsmeade there.” He located the statue of Gregory the Smarmy and traced his finger along the corridor … nothing … nothing on the fifth floor … he moved his eyes to the floor above …  
  
“There,” said Ginny suddenly, jabbing at a spot near the girls’ bathroom. “Two dots - why are they flickering?”  
  
Harry shook his head, staring intently at the ink dots she had pointed out. They disappeared from view, then reappeared, this time with names beneath them.  
  
“Thorfinn Rowle,” he said. “And Ivor Selwyn.”  
  
He felt sick. Death Eaters. _Death Eaters._ They’d never caught them all - Rowle and Selwyn were amongst the few who had managed to disappear entirely after Voldemort’s defeat - but that they were here, now, in the school … amongst the students … How had they got in? Had Hogwarts really lapsed into that false a sense of security, believing that all was well now, that no harm would come to the school again?  
  
McGonagall had gone very pale, but her voice remained steady.  
  
“What would you advise?”  
  
“Can you send a message to the heads of house?” Harry asked, too tense to marvel at the oddity of his former teacher asking _his_ advice. “Their fireplaces can be connected to the ones in the house common rooms, can’t they? If they go there and stand guard ... then I’ll track these two down.”  
  
“Good thinking,” said McGonagall. “I will search for them myself, of course -”  
  
“What? No, Professor -”  
  
“Listen, Potter,” she cut in, her eyes glinting with a steeliness he had seen before, as the castle was breached seven years ago. “For all intents and purposes, you are still an Auror,” she said. “Do what you must.”  
  
“I will,” said Harry. The fact that she was entrusting him with the safety of the school did not escape him.  
  
“Then good luck,” she said, and her head vanished.  
  
Harry took a deep breath, then sent off a Patronus. He turned to Ginny. Her expression suggested she knew exactly what was coming, and she wasn’t going to take it lying down.  
  
“You need to go,” he told her anyway. “Take the boys and go to the Burrow.”  
  
“If you think I can’t defend myself -”  
  
“You know I don’t think that.” He did think, fleetingly, how very _Ginny_ she was in that moment, squaring up to him in fluffy owl pyjamas, five feet of tenacity and resolve. “ _I_ won’t be able to defend myself if I’m worrying about you - they’re _Death Eaters_ , Gin, this might just be a distraction to get me out of the house!”  
  
“And I can handle -”  
  
“I can’t!”  
  
There was a heavy silence. Harry was breathing hard, determined not to let his mind accept the images that were threatening to torment him: Ginny gone, his sons gone …  
  
“OK,” said Ginny, and he looked at her in surprise. “We’ll go.”  
  
There was no time to question her change of heart, but he did his best to convey his immense gratitude, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her fiercely, the warmth of her lips lingering on his after she had gone and he had headed into the cold night. He Apparated to the gates, unwilling to waste more time, and found Ron waiting for him.  
  
“Here we go again, then,” he said by way of greeting, as Harry unlocked the gates and led the way up to the castle.  
  
“Thanks for coming.”  
  
“Hermione wanted to, as well.”  
  
“What did you say?”  
  
“Told her I’d pull a Granger and put her in a Full Body-Bind if she tried to. She hasn’t duelled for years. Think I offended her, but it’s not - I mean, she’s cleverer than us, of course she is, but this was our _job_ , it’s different.”  
  
At the foot of the stone steps Harry checked the Map again. Something caught his eye at once: he moved the illuminated tip of his wand closer to make sure he was seeing correctly …  
  
He was very sure that he was, in fact, standing before the front door, as was Ron, and yet according to the Map, there was no one there. He didn’t understand. The Map had always worked perfectly well; what had changed?  
  
It took a second or two for the penny to drop. The Map hadn’t changed; the castle had. After the final battle, parts had been in such ruin that they had needed extensive repair; some had been rebuilt entirely. The Map could only show what its creators had known was there.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Ron whispered.  
  
“The Map,” said Harry quietly. “It doesn’t work properly anymore.”  
  
\- - -  
Gabe rolled over onto his back, blinking at the ceiling of his canopy. His eyes weren’t heavy at all; he didn’t feel remotely sleepy, although he knew come morning he’d be yawning his head off. Now, though, lying in the darkness listening to the deep even breathing of the others, he was wide awake … and thinking.  
  
He might have changed his mind about Hogwarts, but his marks hadn’t magically (ha - the irony) rocketed up overnight. The fact was that he’d missed an awful lot through brooding and sulking, and he wasn’t sure how to catch up. He didn’t want to sound thick, like he needed extra help …  
  
And in another twist of irony, the one person he might have considered going to - the one who, he was fairly sure, had started a club purely for the purpose of helping Gabe make friends - had been conspicuous in his absence for the last two weeks.  
  
Gabe had been trying to read his textbooks at night, but it was very confusing with no teacher to explain anything or give context to the gobbledegook that might as well have been in Greek for all the sense it made. He watched his classmates with envy in the evenings as they sat doing homework together; they all had friends, all of them, and no one bothered about Gabe, because he’d been a nuisance in their first weeks. First impressions lasted, apparently.  
  
He’d sworn he would stick it out now, for his mum, but was this what he was resigning himself to? No friends, bottom of the class, stupid and alone …  
  
He rubbed his eyes roughly, then sat up. Sleep wasn’t on the cards; he might as well get out of the room, which felt hot and stifling in the dark. He fumbled around for a pair of socks and pulled a sweatshirt over his pyjamas, then crept down the stairs to the common room.  
  
He had just reached the last step when something made him stop short. Someone had just emerged from the door to the girls’ dormitories. The common room was dark, but as the person passed by the tall windows, the moon shifted from behind a cloud and the shaft of light illuminated their face. It was Naomi Hopkins, who sat next to Gabe whenever they were seated alphabetically. One of the boffins - _she_ always got her work done - and very quiet.  
  
So why was she out of bed in the middle of the night?  
  
As she climbed out of the portrait hole, Gabe made a split-second decision and followed her. It wasn’t like he was going to tell on her, whatever she was doing he wasn’t a grass - but he was unbearably curious about what she was up to.  
  
Had he and Naomi been a few minutes later in leaving the common room, they would have been caught by Professor Bloom, who arrived through the fireplace to guard the tower, and the whole thing would have never happened - but they weren’t, and it did.  
  
The large woman in the portrait over the entrance wasn’t in her frame, which was a relief as she tended to be nosy, but also unnerving, because Gabe had never been anywhere near an oil painting before and certainly not ones that could talk and move. Naomi was walking at a measured pace, oddly casual given that she was sneaking around at night. Her brown hair trailed down her back; she, too, was in her pyjamas. Gabe’s curiosity only rose as he followed her at a stealthy distance, keeping his steps light - she was practically drifting along the corridor, not in any hurry at all, and yet she didn’t hesitate at all before turning the corner, suggesting she knew exactly where she was going.  
  
Around another corner, down a flight of stairs … Gabe was just wondering if in fact he ought to turn back when he heard something other than Naomi’s footsteps. Further down the passage they had just turned into, he caught the faint sounds of low voices - men’s voices. In his head, he ran through the male members of staff - Potter, of course, but he wasn’t here - Professor Longbottom, who was nice; Professor Heyes, who wasn’t; Mr. Morgan, the Games and Sports teacher … oh, and there was the caretaker, Mr. Nesbitt, who didn’t speak much but sometimes smiled at you when you passed by. Apart from Professor Heyes, Gabe couldn’t think that any of them would be all that terrible to run into wandering around the castle after curfew. Still, better not to get caught, if possible …  
  
The voices sounded nearer now, and shadowy figures came into view at the end of the passage. Gabe stopped dead, but Naomi kept walking. Despite himself, Gabe felt impressed: she was either completely daft or totally fearless, and given that she was usually near the top of the class, it couldn’t really be the first one.  
  
The figures had drawn closer, and in the little light there was, Gabe could see that they were hooded, wearing long black cloaks and pale masks covering their faces. Suddenly all curiosity or excitement had gone; a jolt of fear went through him. He swallowed hard. He didn’t know a lot about wizards, but he had to assume that hooded men in masks weren’t there to fix the plumbing.  
  
And Naomi was still walking towards them. She hadn’t altered her pace at all: it was as if she didn’t see what was in front of her. What was wrong with her?  
  
It occurred to Gabe in that moment that he had left his wand in his bag. Why that mattered, he didn’t know - it wasn’t like he could do much with it - but he felt strangely vulnerable without any kind of weapon. That was bizarre, really, he didn’t carry a weapon normally, but then he didn’t normally find himself in a creepy old castle in the middle of the night with two blokes in masks …  
  
He ducked back around the corner, peered out from behind the wall and hissed, “Naomi!”  
  
She didn’t turn - but the men had stopped talking. Oh no. _Oh no oh no oh no._ Gabe was trembling from head to toe now, a horrible pit of dread in his stomach.

“Someone’s there,” he heard one of them say. “It’s a kid -”  
  
There was a sudden flurry of movement, unclear in the dark who was moving where - and then - Gabe’s heart dropped into his stomach - one of the masked men had an arm across Naomi’s neck, the wand in his other hand pointing at her head. Naomi wasn’t struggling, but still staring straight ahead.  
  
“What are you waiting for?” said the other gruffly. “Just kill her.”  
  
Without thinking, Gabe let out a horrified gasp - he couldn’t let that happen, he was the only one here, he had to do something -  
  
“What was that?” said the one holding Naomi, sharply. “I heard something.”  
  
The other one said something Gabe didn’t hear. He didn’t have time to wonder, either, because he was moving - being yanked from his hiding spot by some invisible force, as if some giant magnet was pulling him forwards - he struggled against it, but it was no good; he was pinned in a chokehold, pressure on his throat making him splutter. _This is a nightmare,_  was the only thing going through his head. _I’ll wake up and I’ll be back at home and all of this will have been a terrible dream …_ _  
_ _  
_ “There’s something wrong with this one, Rowle,” said Naomi’s captor disgustedly, poking her in the temple with the tip of his wand. “Not right in the head.”  
  
“Don’t kill her yet,” said Rowle. “We can use her as bait if he puts up a fight.” He lowered his head, speaking close to Gabe’s ear. “All right, sonny.” His breath was warm on Gabe's neck, his voice harsh. “Why don’t you tell us where to find Harry Potter, and we’ll think about letting you go.”  
  
_What?_

Had it been any other time, Gabe would have been intrigued to find out Potter’s first name - it was odd that teachers had them at all, and Harry didn’t seem to fit, for some reason - but he was concentrating on getting his brain to work, rather than being totally blank from the pure fear that was coursing through him.  
  
OK. They wanted to find Potter. Probably because they wanted to kill him. Potter wasn’t there, but his study might tell them where he was - it could have his address in there, somewhere -  
  
Well, it wasn’t like he’d never lied before.  
  
“H-he’s on the f-fourth floor!” he stammered. He didn’t have to pretend - there were real nerves making his voice tremble. “W-west wing, I th-think …”  
  
“Oh, very good,” said Rowle, in a horribly unctuous tone. “Well, you can show us the way, can’t you? I think we’ll take you and your friend along with us … then if Potter gives us any trouble … we can see how fond he’s become of his students …”  
  
The other man gave a dark laugh.  
  
“D’you think he’d miss you, eh? Think he’d trade your life for his?”  
  
The words rang terribly in Gabe’s ears, but he was only half-listening; he was thinking that he desperately needed to escape and warn someone. Even if he just shouted - but then they could kill him in a second, probably -  
  
“I still think we should get rid of the girl now - serve as a warning,” Naomi’s captor said.  
  
As Rowle turned to say something impatient, Gabe seized his moment - he twisted his elbow upwards and rammed it, hard, into the man’s thickset throat. He yelped and swore, loosening his grip - Gabe wrenched himself free and ran, adrenaline fuelling him -  
  
“NO!”  
  
A streak of red light flew towards him - he ducked narrowly, but more followed - they would catch him, and then, surely, they would kill him -  
  
Impulsively, instinctively, he threw himself to the ground and sprawled on the cold stone floor, feigning unconsciousness, hoping they would think one of their spells had got him. Heavy footsteps approached him.  
  
“Right,” snarled the man who wasn’t Rowle. “I’m done with this one.”  
  
“Stop!” Rowle barked. Gabe, his face pressed to the floor, opened one eye a fraction. He could see black boots right beside him; a few feet away, Naomi had seemingly been thrown to the ground when Gabe made his escape; she was lying there limply, apparently unconscious.  
  
“Someone will have heard that,” said Rowle tersely. “If we want to get this done, we do it now. Leave them here. We need to go.”  
  
“But -”  
  
“ _Incarcerous!”_  
  
Thin silver ropes flew from the tip and twisted themselves around Naomi’s prone form, binding her; another flick, and Gabe felt them coil around his own body, separate ropes pinning his wrists and ankles together.  
  
There was a satisfied grunt, and then the sound of footsteps heading away from the spot where he lay. Gabe waited a while before opening his eyes fully, turning his head to see properly. The men were gone; it was just him and an unconscious Naomi, waiting here for them to return … when they found out Gabe had lied to them …  
  
So this was it: he was eleven years old, and he was going to die. Hot tears stung his eyes as he imagined his mum being told - he pictured Ruby, her toothy smile, and wondered what they would tell her - if he hadn’t been a wizard, if he’d gone to the local comprehensive, he wouldn’t be lying here _about to die_ -

He closed his eyes. It had started to rain, because he could hear it spattering against the windows. How long did he have? He felt numb; he ought to be shrieking, screaming, pleading, but he couldn’t move … no one was coming …  
  
“What the - Gabriel!”  
  
His eyes snapped open. There were two pairs of legs in his peripheral vision, and it was a man’s voice that had spoken, but instead of sending horror through him, he was flooded with immense relief, blissful relief - if he wasn’t imagining it, that was -  
  
“ _Evanesco_ ,” said another voice, and the ropes binding him vanished.  
  
“Tell me what happened,” said Professor Potter urgently as Gabe sat up, rubbing his arms. He was wearing ordinary jeans and a jumper, as was the tall, ginger-haired man with him, who had vanished Naomi’s ropes as well and was checking her wrist for a pulse.  
  
Gabe swallowed. “Two men,” he said, wishing his voice wasn’t shaking so much. “One was called Rowle - they were looking for you - I lied, I told them you were on the fourth floor -”  
  
Potter stared at him, green eyes intense. “Did you tell them anything more specific?” he asked eventually. His own voice wasn’t particularly steady, though Gabe didn’t know why.  
  
“I think I said it was the west wing …”  
  
“Right.” Potter looked first at Gabe, then at the ginger man. “Stay there,” he ordered, and then he was running, tearing down the corridor, looking, but for his jeans, like some kind of warrior going into battle -

“Like hell,” said the other man scornfully, and he set off at a sprint after him.  
  
Gabe sank against the wall, blood thudding in his ears. The ground felt much more solid beneath his feet now Potter was there; there was something about him that reassured, that told you he would handle it; but how would he handle two masked men who were ready to kill?  
  
He was wondering if in fact he ought to move, and try and get help for Naomi, when yet another set of footsteps came hurtling towards him. He tensed, panic sparking again.  
  
“Mr Hutchinson!”  
  
The Headmistress skidded to a halt, looking thoroughly astonished as she took in the scene. “What on Earth!”  
  
“We were attacked - there were two men, in masks - they went to find Professor Potter, and then he turned up, and he went after them,” he gabbled, hoping she would be able to make some sense of it. Professor McGonagall’s beady gaze was making his knees feel wobbly again: he felt like he was in trouble. (Which he probably was, to be fair.)  
  
“I see.” She pursed her lips, and then said loudly, “Pippin!”  
  
Gabe, thinking it was another spell, flinched - and then jumped. With a loud crack, the strangest creature he had ever seen materialised in front of him. It looked sort of like an ugly Pokemon, with large pointed ears and enormous eyes, wearing an odd dress-type thing with the Hogwarts crest on it.  
  
“Headmistress called?” it squeaked.  
  
“Kindly take these students to the hospital wing and wake Madam Pomfrey,” said McGonagall. “Inform her that I am aware of the situation and will be there in due course.”  
  
The creature bowed deeply, then grasped Gabe’s arm with one spindly hand and Naomi’s with the other. Before he could ask what was going on, there was another _crack,_  and he was enveloped by darkness.  
  
He would not have believed his eyes if he had remained, and seen the Headmistress sprinting off down the corridor like a woman possessed, hair tumbling from its bun and hat askew.  
  
\- - -   
Adrenaline was pumping in Harry’s veins, cold and fierce determination gripping him. This was a world away from his life now: this was how it had been, Death Eaters and the castle in danger and students attacked. It wasn’t supposed to be like this anymore.  
  
Ron had caught up with him, as Harry had known he would - there was no way he would have let him go alone - and they slowed their pace as they reached the part of the castle Gabe had directed Selwyn and Rowle to. Acting on instinct more than any hope that it would be useful, Harry withdrew the Map and glanced at it. He exhaled in relief: that quarter must have remained intact, for their names were there, prowling along the corridor. Closer and closer … he looked at Ron and nodded. They had muffled their footsteps earlier, and crept silently forwards, wands ready.

And then they were only feet away from the two masked figures in black robes, a sight that still chilled Harry’s blood. These had been amongst Voldemort’s hand-picked soldiers: they were dangerous. But he and Ron had an advantage, they were approaching from behind - he gave Ron the signal, and they launched forwards -  
  
At the last moment, Rowle - recognisable by his bulky figure - turned, letting out a shout as Harry and Ron fired their spells; he was quick, blocking them and throwing more in return, and Selwyn gave a roar of anger and shot a curse at Harry - a streak of green light -  
  
Ron swore loudly and deflected it, following it with a curse of his own, which Selwyn ducked; the corridor was alight with flashes of light as they duelled, and Harry felt a spike of satisfaction that he and Ron were no longer teenagers, they were trained Aurors, they could hold their own now ...  
  
Rowle threw a curse underarm, and Harry could not dodge it in time: it hit his knee, which exploded with pain, and he stumbled, grabbing at the wall for support, as Rowle raised his wand again … he would not go like this … he would not go at all …  
  
“NO!” shrieked a voice, and Rowle was blasted backwards off his feet, skidding along the floor on his back: Professor McGonagall, wand aloft, was radiating pure fury. Before Rowle had chance to right himself, Harry, still leaning heavily on the wall, took aim.  
  
“ _Stupefy! Incarcerous!”_ _  
_

A few feet away, Ron was duelling Selwyn, his normally friendly freckled face dark, determined. As he ducked one spell, Selwyn raised his wand again, but he did not point it at Ron - Harry slashed his wand through the air as if he were wielding a sword, and Selwyn staggered, his own wand clattering to the floor -  
  
He fell from the force of McGonagall and Ron’s curses, slamming him into the wall. Ron had him bound before he had fully crumpled to the floor.  
  
\- - -  
  
Harry had a distinct sense that Ron, too, had been about to send Selwyn and Rowle straight to the Ministry’s holding cells, before he remembered that they no longer had that power. If Ron caught Harry’s own slip - “I suppose we should send for the othe- I mean, the Aurors”, then he didn’t comment.  
  
They brought their incapacitated charges up to McGonagall’s office to wait while she went to the hospital wing to check on Gabriel and Naomi. Out of habit, Harry glanced at Dumbledore’s portrait, but he was snoring softly, half-moon glasses slipping down his long crooked nose. Harry wanted to wake him, to say - _to say what, exactly?_ The thought that was niggling at him was that it was supposed to be safe, once Voldemort was gone, it was supposed to be over: he wasn’t supposed to be fighting Death Eaters in Hogwarts again. There was something else lurking in the shadows of his mind, too, making him feel uneasy, but he couldn’t identify precisely what it was.  
  
It was less than ten minutes before the fire flared green, expelling the stocky figure of Gawain Robards onto the carpet. He moved aside, brushing soot from his scarlet robes, as two more Aurors followed: Williamson, who had been there with Tonks; and Greening, a skinny wizard with a moustache, whom Ron had disliked intensely. Harry hid a smile as right on cue he heard Ron mutter, “Oh, not that prat.”  
  
The last time Harry had seen Robards was at his leaving party (or what passed for one; the Aurors weren’t a particularly exuberant bunch), and he had been smiling then, if only slightly, as he clapped Harry on the back and wished him luck. That might have been a different person entirely, for the man standing in front of Harry now had a face like thunder; he looked as if he were confronting his worst enemy.  
  
“We had a message from Minerva McGonagall!” he snapped, glaring from Harry to Ron like they were the last people he wanted to come across. Personally, Harry felt this was uncalled for, especially given the fact that they had two Death Eaters bundled in the corner. “What the hell are you two doing?”  
  
Harry and Ron exchanged bemused looks.  
  
“Er, catching Death Eaters?” Ron hedged, gesturing to them.  
  
“Which isn’t your job, last time I looked.”  
  
Robards’ voice was cold and flat, but Harry couldn’t fathom why. “We were here, so we got them,” he said, trying (for once) not to sound flippant. “I sort of thought that was a good thing.”  
  
(All right, that was a bit flippant.)  
  
“You are not an Auror!” Robards barked, his face turning an Uncle-Vernon-ish shade of purple.  
  
“What, pray tell, is going on here?”  
  
McGonagall had returned. She folded her arms across her chest and surveyed Robards sternly.  
  
“Ah!” said Robards furiously. “You! I don’t suppose you can tell me why we were not summoned  _at once_ , and instead Potter and Weasley took it upon themselves to have a little adventure?”  
  
“Why?” repeated McGonagall. The temperature in the room seemed to dip purely from the iciness of her tone. “Well, because I asked them to, you see.”  
  
“ _You asked them?_ You didn’t think to send for the Aurors? They are not authorised -”  
  
“I considered it not a question of authorisation, but of skill,” said McGonagall curtly. “I thought it prudent to act quickly. Potter and Weasley have knowledge of the castle that would surpass that of few others.”  
  
“I don’t - that isn’t - their knowledge of the castle is not pertinent!” Robards cried. “The fact is that they are _not Aurors_ -”  
  
“Not now, yeah,” said Ron, “but we were, so what’s the problem? Harry only left a few months ago!”  
  
“A _former_ Auror is hardly the same thing -”  
  
“I never took you for a fool, Gawain Robards, so I cannot imagine you truly believe that all of Potter’s training and skills simply vanished the second he accepted another job!” McGonagall said sharply. “He is as able as he ever was, as is Weasley!”  
  
“So he can leave and just carry on doing whatever he likes, can he?” Robards snapped. “Have all the papers saying that any arrests the Aurors made while Potter was with us was down to him, and give him credit for everything?”  
  
“ _What?”_ said Harry incredulously. “That’s not -”  
  
He was cut off by McGonagall snorting derisively. “So that’s what this is about, is it?” she said to Robards, scornfully. “I must say, Gawain, jealousy is not a flattering colour on you.”  
  
Robards flinched, his expression darkening further. He made a movement towards his wand that was missed by neither Harry nor Ron, who both drew theirs. Greening eyed them nervously; Williamson looked bored.  
  
“I don’t want any credit,” Harry said shortly. “You can tell everyone you caught them, I don’t care, and I bet Ron doesn’t, either.” He glanced over at Ron, who shrugged in a nonchalant fashion.  
  
“Nah, I reckon I’ve taken down enough already,” he said dismissively. “Don’t want to make the Aurors look bad, do we?”  
  
This remark made Robards look positively apoplectic. He glowered at Ron, but addressed McGonagall when he spoke.  
  
“This had better not happen again, I’m warning you, or you’ll find there are serious consequences for enlisting civilians to handle dangerous criminals,” he spat. A fleck of spittle flew from his mouth and narrowly missed McGonagall. She drew herself up to her full height and regarded him dispassionately from behind her square spectacles.  
  
“Kindly do not threaten me in my school,” she said coldly. “I will continue to act as I see fit, and I will not be intimidated by a man sadly suffering from insecurity at being overshadowed by a pair of wizards twenty years his junior.”  
  
“Bloody hell,” Ron whispered in Harry’s ear. " _Destroyed_.”   
  
The colour was draining from Robards’ face. It was clear he didn’t want to accept defeat, but he was also not willing to enter into a full-scale battle with McGonagall, whose expression was icy.  
  
“Take them away,” he growled at Williamson and Greening, jabbing his thumb at the Death Eaters. With a last furious glare at Harry and Ron, he turned on his heel, flung a handful of Floo Powder at the fire and disappeared into the flames.  
  
“That was brilliant,” Ron said to McGonagall, when the others had gone too, gripping the captives firmly. “You obliterated him!”  
  
McGonagall looked rather flattered.  
  
“Madam Pomfrey assures me that Mr. Hutchinson and Miss Hopkins will be fine,” she told Harry, who let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. His knee was throbbing painfully; he desperately wanted this long night to be over. “She believes Miss Hopkins may have been sleepwalking -”  
  
“What?”  
  
“- but,” McGonagall interrupted firmly, “there will be plenty of time to discuss that tomorrow, and I do prefer my staff to have had at least a _little_ sleep before they attempt to teach.”  
  
“Capital idea,” said Ron, yawning widely. “C’mon, Harry - Hermione’ll be going spare.”  
  
He took Harry’s arm to help him out of the office. At the door, McGonagall spoke again.  
  
“Thank you both,” she said, “for your service to the school - yet again.”  
  
Harry and Ron glanced at each other.  
  
“Any time, Professor,” said Ron. “Really.”  
  
“Yeah,” said Harry. “Help will always be given to those at Hogwarts who ask for it, right?”  
  
Behind the desk, Dumbledore’s portrait, still feigning sleep, smiled.  
  
\- - -  
Ginny had been pacing the kitchen for about twenty minutes, despite the twinges that came from moving around two weeks after giving birth. Sitting still was doing nothing to calm her nerves. She knew he’d probably be fine, he always was (hospital stays and temporary death aside), but she couldn’t help worrying. She snorted at the fact that she’d naively thought _that_ part of her marriage had gone for good when he left the Aurors.  
  
Her mother and father sat at the kitchen table, Molly wringing her hands and making endless cups of tea, Arthur offering occasional tidbits of reassurance: “He and Ron are very capable … and with Minerva McGonagall there too, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about …”  
  
At long, long last, there was a loud _crack_ somewhere outside, and Ginny lurched to the back door, quelling the thought that it could be someone else, come to tell her the terrible news -  
  
The door swung open and Harry stood there, leaning heavily against the frame, looking utterly exhausted. Ginny reached for him, but her father was there before she could, levelling his wand at Harry.  
  
“What did I say to you on your wedding day?” he demanded, cutting off Ginny’s indignant protest.  
  
Harry swallowed. “That you couldn’t be happier to officially call me your son,” he said.

Arthur lowered his wand. “Sorry,” he said apologetically, “but I had to check.”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” said Harry wearily, running a hand through his hair. “Thought we were done with all that, didn’t we?”  
  
“You’re hurt,” Ginny realised, taking in the way he was hanging onto the door for balance. Her mother leapt into action, guiding a faintly protesting Harry to a seat and - before he could stop her - slicing the bottom of his jeans leg clean away with one brisk swipe of her wand to examine his knee.

Ginny sat down next to him, grasping his hand.

“Is it over? Is everyone all right?”

Harry nodded, but there was something about the distant look in his eyes that told her he wasn't all right at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaargh. I struggled with this chapter - action is REALLY not my thing, nor is plot. (I'm not actually sure what my thing is, or if indeed I have one at all.) I only hope that it was bearable, as the events will have important consequences for Harry and Gabe - and next chapter will be back to normal viewing, THANK MERLIN.


	9. The Brave at Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I was stunned by the reaction to the last chapter - I honestly expected comments like "yes, it wasn't very polished, but ..." so I'm very very humbled by the lovely things people said. Thank you AGAIN to everyone who has read, left kudos, bookmarked, commented, subscribed ... I love you all!  
> I now have a page on my tumblr for behind-the-scenes info about this story, which at the moment has stuff like the subjects now taught, Harry's timetable, names of all the first years, and the staff list, with backstories for characters I've invented, Pottermore-style. If that's your kinda thing, check it out at glisseowrites.tumblr.com. You can also just pop by to say hi, or ask anything, demand to know what's up with any inconsistencies you've spotted ... I don't bite, am friendly (albeit socially awkward) and besides, being a twenty-something Hufflepuff with grandmotherly characteristics and hobbies am basically the least threatening person ever ...
> 
> A note about this chapter: I planned on it containing more events, but it was running long and so I decided to break it up. That ought to mean that the next chapter is up quicker!

For the first few minutes after Harry woke up, he wasn’t entirely sure where he was, only that it definitely wasn’t his bedroom at home. Wondering if he had been kidnapped, he peered blearily at his unfocused surroundings before remembering that he and Ginny had stayed at the Burrow last night since the children were asleep. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but as he put his glasses on and sat up he was now mentally cataloguing everything he needed to do before work: get changed, make sure he had everything in his bag, feed the cat, put the milk bottles out … his knee was still painful, throbbing sharply when he slid out of bed and pointed his wand at the curtains to let dull November light flood Bill’s old bedroom. As he did, he saw with surprise that the clothes he’d laid out yesterday were hanging on the back of the door. Bemused, he had a quick wash and changed into them, examining himself critically in the mirror. He’d combed his hair, but it didn’t make much difference (the mirror concurred, informing him that he looked like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards) and there were dark shadows under his eyes. It felt odd to be back in his work robes after spending two weeks in clothes that fell into the category 'doesn't matter if a small human throws up on them’ (or performs any other bodily function, for that matter). Harry loved his children dearly, but he had to admit he was quite looking forward to when they reached an age where they didn't feel the need to wee on him.

Or worse.  
  
Now semi-respectable, he made his way downstairs, where the smell of something frying led him to the kitchen: Molly was prodding at a pan of sausages and bacon sizzling on the stove, while on the sideboard a bread knife was thickly slicing a crusty loaf and eggs were cracking themselves into a bowl. At the table Ginny was feeding Al, and James was on the floor playing with a pair of wooden spoons.  
  
“Oh, you’re up!” said Molly, spotting him. “Sit down, I’ll do you a plate ... you found your clothes, then?”  
  
“Mum went over to the house this morning and got them,” Ginny explained. “We thought you could do without rushing around.”  
  
“You didn’t have to do that -” Harry began, feeling bad, but Molly waved an airy hand.

“It was nothing, dear. Now, I _did_ iron your robes again, just to get the creases out, and I put out some cat food, there wasn’t much in the bowl, and I thought the milk bottles might need to go out, as well ...”  
  
Harry had to laugh as she ticked off everything on his mental list. “That’s great, now I only need my bag ...”  
  
Molly pointed at the coat pegs by the back door. His satchel - a birthday present from Percy, with his initials embroidered above the catch - was hanging on one of them.  
  
“You’re amazing,” he told Molly fervently, which made her blush.  
  
“Now, make sure you eat up,” she instructed him, setting a heaped plate in front of him. “You’re looking a little thin, especially for your height … Ginny, are you feeding him enough?”  
  
“He’s an adult, Mum, he can feed himself,” said Ginny. She rolled her eyes at Harry; her mother tutted.  
  
“Well, I’ve made you a packed lunch, in your bag, just in case.”  
  
Harry was very fond of his mother-in-law, but she did have a habit of making him feel eleven years old again. His stomach was rumbling, though, so he tucked into his breakfast, pausing only to grab James, who had abandoned his wooden spoons and was trying to get the bread knife. He seemed happy enough to sit on Harry’s lap while he ate, stealing bits of bacon when he thought he could get away with it.  
  
Just after eight, he set his knife and fork down and scraped his chair back, shifting James to his arms. It did not escape his notice that Ginny was watching him carefully as he slung his bag over one shoulder and kissed her, then Al.  
  
“Let’s go to Nana, eh?” he said to James. His son let out a whimper of protest when Harry went to give him to Molly; he allowed himself to be taken by his grandmother, but reached his hands out pleadingly to Harry, eyes beseeching, mumbling piteously.  
  
“Daaddddyyyyy …”  
  
Harry’s heart felt as if it was breaking in two. “Daddy has to go to work,” he said. “But I’ll be back really soon, OK?”  
  
James turned away and buried his head in Molly’s shoulder, sniffing. She shot Harry a sympathetic look.  
  
“He’s probably just a little unsettled after last night,” she reassured him in an undertone. “He’ll be right as rain by the time you get home.”  
  
Harry hoped so, but it wasn’t the best start to his day, only adding to the inner turmoil that had been swirling around his brain since last night; to add to his strain, although he Apparated as close to the castle as possible, his knee was aching by the time he made it to the front door. McGonagall was leaving breakfast as he came into the Entrance Hall.  
  
“Ah, good morning, Professor.” Her sharp eyes immediately zeroed in on his slight limp, and her tone became disapproving. “Did you not have your injury seen to?”  
  
“Molly fixed it, but it’ll be painful for a few days - side-effect of the curse.”  
  
“Then see Madam Pomfrey for a pain relieving potion.”  
  
Harry nodded, though he wasn’t especially keen to return to his habit of visiting Madam Pomfrey. “How are -”  
  
“Mr. Hutchinson will be fine to leave the hospital wing today, although he is excused from his first lesson to rest a little more. Miss Hopkins has been given a potion for Dreamless Sleep. Madam Pomfrey is hoping that she will sleep for a good while longer.”  
  
“Oh, good.”  
  
“However - I should warn you,” said McGonagall, before he could excuse himself. “I’m afraid word of the events of last night has spread. I’m sure by now the details have been grossly exaggerated -”  
  
“But _how?_ How did anyone know?”  
  
Her lips thinned. “Mr. Peasegood, from the fourth year, was also in the hospital wing last night. He chose to feign sleep in order to eavesdrop.”  
  
“Oh dear,” Harry murmured, trying not to look guilty; he had definitely done that himself on more than one occasion.  
  
“He returned to Gryffindor Tower early this morning and evidently wasted no time in sharing what he heard. He and I have already had a little conversation about the school’s expectations of its students.”  
  
Harry could easily imagine how that conversation had gone. He didn’t think Peasegood would be eavesdropping again anytime soon.  
  
“I thought you ought to be forewarned,” said McGonagall, “as no doubt you will be asked about it.”  
  
_And isn’t that just great_ , Harry thought, hobbling up to his classroom. He paused on the threshold, taking in the room that had started to feel like another home after only a month or so. The sun was making a tentative appearance and faint rays filtered through the windows, making visible the dust motes floating in the air and turning the wooden desks golden in the light. He breathed in the slightly musty smell of wood and parchment and chalk, a strange mix of emotions rising to the surface.  
  
He wasn’t sure if it was a universal thing, but coming back into school after any amount of time away always felt odd to Harry: voices sounded louder and discordant yet somehow muffled and he himself felt peculiar, as if he were not firmly rooted to the ground, or even fully corporeal, like one of the ghosts.  
  
His desk was much tidier than he’d left it, quills and ink bottles lined up on one side and assorted papers piled together neatly on the other, rather than the jumble they’d been in two weeks ago. In the middle, Heyes had left his notes - or rather, Harry saw as he flicked through, _Harry’s_ notes, detailing the syllabus for each class; Heyes had ticked off the topics and lessons, as if to prove that he had covered them, but had not left any comments regarding how the students had got on with the material, who had struggled, what needed a bit more work ... Harry’s irritation rose. They were _his_ classes: it wasn’t his fault he’d been on paternity leave. (Although, he acknowledged, technically it could be argued that it was in fact very much his fault, if you traced the chain of events back.)  
  
He sat down and pulled his new lesson plans from his bag, running his finger along Tuesday’s column on his timetable to check he had everything right. Fourth years first, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw - they were a fairly steady group, with only a few on the more gregarious side. Then his seventh years, which was fine; he enjoyed the higher level of debate usually generated in their sessions. He had a free period for planning before lunch, then the afternoon was taken up by first and fifth years and the other fourth year class. Part of all those lessons, he thought crossly, would involve establishing how they’d found the material covered with them by Heyes. This was annoying, as he had planned on engaging the fourth years in a discussion about whether certain magic was Dark by nature or by intent, something bound to result in interesting answers.  
  
When the ringing of the bell signalled the start of lessons, he eased himself out of his chair and settled for leaning against the desk instead, allowing it to take some weight from his leg. The sound of chattering voices and footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, then the door opened and a mop of curly hair belonging to one of his fourth years poked inside, then withdrew.  
  
“He’s back!” Harry heard him say, which seemed to be the cue for the others to file into the classroom, although they surely couldn’t have all intended to skive off if it had still been Heyes. He felt flattered nonetheless, especially when many of the students greeted him with wide smiles. One, an eager Ravenclaw girl called Charlotte, bounded up to him at the front.  
  
“Did your wife have the baby, sir?”  
  
That was not the question Harry had anticipated being faced with first (Bertie Peasegood was in the third row, looking chastened, the typical expression of one who has just been scolded by Minerva McGonagall); it was, however, vastly preferable to being interrogated about last night’s events, and he felt a familiar flicker of delight at the words ‘your wife’, even though he and Ginny had been married for over two years now.  
  
“Yes, she did,” he told Charlotte, who clapped her hands together in glee, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “His name is Alfred. Seven pounds, three ounces.”  
  
The rest of the class reacted as if he’d told them he was bringing a litter of puppies into their next lesson.  
  
“That’s such a cute name!”  
  
“Have you got a picture?”  
  
Harry’s favourite comment by far came from Humphrey Grant, a sturdily built boy taller than some of the seventh years, who said loudly, “Cor, that’s tiny! My little brother was eleven pounds!”  
  
“My sympathies to your mother,” said Harry. He gestured for Charlotte to sit down, took the register, then rested his hands on the desk behind him as he addressed the class. A few already had their hands up: Harry was sure at least one of them had to be asking about last night, so he shook his head at them to indicate they should put their hands down.  
  
“Right,” he said. “You’ve been thinking about what defines a curse and what distinguishes it from a hex or jinx -”  
  
The rest of his words were drowned out by indignant voices.  
  
“Yeah, and we got _loads_ of homework -”  
  
“Tons. Bloody glad you’re back,” Humphrey said frankly. Harry tried not to feel smug.  
  
It turned out that Heyes had covered the topic quite comprehensively: they answered his questions well, although there were a few remarks around the theme of it being ‘less fun’ than with Harry. He was able to move on to the discussion as planned, and as expected, he received some fairly insightful responses on the matter of intent; some argued that you couldn’t use Dark magic for good, some things were evil no matter what, whereas others thought that there was a distinction, especially when you considered that typically non-Dark spells could be used for Dark purposes. All in all, he felt significantly more settled by the time he dismissed the class, and greeted the seventh years trooping in after them warmly. Most of them, too, expressed that they were glad he was back. He had to calmly but firmly steer them onto any actual work, because they seized the birth of his son as an opportunity to deviate from the lesson by getting him to talk about his personal life and peppered him with questions (“Who does he look like most?” “D’you think he’ll play Quidditch?” “How many children do you want?”).  
  
“To be honest, you lot are putting me off the idea of more,” he told them dryly, and refused to say any more on the subject. “OK. So, you’ve started looking at the theory of _finding_ Dark magic. It’s easy enough to know what it is, but finding it is another matter. Often you’ll be dealing with very subtle magic that’s almost impossible to trace unless you know what you’re looking for.”  
  
He paused, annoyance flaring: two of the Ravenclaws, Aneurin Pendry and Liselotte Klein, weren’t paying the slightest bit of attention to him, but exchanging urgent whispers. It wasn’t uncommon to have students talking in class, but he expected more of his seventh years, whom he could usually count on to be engaged.  
_  
"You_ ask him!”  
  
“No, you wanted to know -”  
  
“Is there a problem?” said Harry abruptly, cutting them off.  
  
The two exchanged glances. Liselotte elbowed Aneurin in the ribs; he cleared his throat, looking embarrassed.  
  
“We were just going to ask … what _did_ happen last night?”  
  
This drew the rest of the class’s interest at once. Someone - probably a Gryffindor - let out a low whistle.  
  
Harry folded his arms, deliberating his answer. He didn’t think it was a good idea to disclose details they didn’t already know. Likely he’d receive a Howler from Robards accusing him of interfering with an open Auror investigation by involving other civilians.  
  
Eventually, he said, “How about you tell me what _you_ all know, and then I’ll tell you if you’re right.”  
  
“What if we’re wrong?”  
  
Harry shrugged. “Tough.”  
  
There were some murmurs of complaint and a few cries of ‘not fair!’, but he thought this was probably the quickest way to get it over with and return to his lesson plan.  
  
“Right, OK.” The Head Boy, Tim Chowdhry, took command. “So, we know that Isobel -” He nodded at Isobel Lin, his counterpart from Ravenclaw - “heard two men talking about looking for something last night, and she didn’t recognise their voices -”  
  
“Don’t you want to know what Lin was doing out after curfew, sir?” interrupted Caspian Flume, a note of innocence in his voice that Harry didn’t buy for one second. Caspian might have been the Head Boy’s best friend, but that didn’t make any word out of his mouth any more believable. To his classmates, he was known as ‘Sandy’, due - apparently - to an incident in his second year in which he had somehow turned the Great Hall into a beach. Hagrid had confided that the staff still didn’t know where he’d got the all sand from, let alone the crabs.  
  
“No,” said Harry, hiding a grin at Caspian’s disappointed face. Clearly he was trying to stir, and Harry wasn’t having any of that. “Carry on, Tim.”  
  
“OK, so everything else we know is second-hand - that Peasegood kid heard Professor McGonagall in the hospital wing, telling Madam Pomfrey that two first years had been attacked by Death Eaters, and that you and someone else had gone after them -”  
  
“Weasley,” Esther Novak chipped in. “I heard that she said Potter and Weasley.”  
  
Tim looked at Harry. “Is that right?”  
  
“Yes,” said Harry. “Ron Weasley.”  
  
“Woaaah. _Ron Weasley_ was here? He’s like, the coolest person ever,” said Keith Leary, reverently. “I mean, he helped take down You-Know-Who, he was an Auror, and now he runs the best joke shop in the country - he’s _mint._ ”  
  
“He does support the Cannons, though,” said Harry. Keith considered this for a moment, before shrugging and concluding that Ron was ‘still cool’.  
  
“Why was Ron Weasley here, sir?” asked Esther. “And how come _you_ were here?”  
  
Caspian rolled his eyes. “Duh. McGonagall must have called him. Who else would you want to deal with Death Eaters?”  
  
“Yes, she did,” said Isobel, speaking for the first time in her quiet, measured voice. “When I left her office, I heard her talking to him.”  
  
“But that doesn’t make sense,” Tim frowned. “How would Professor McGonagall have known they were Death Eaters?”  
  
Harry shook his head. “She didn’t. But intruders in the school aren’t generally a good thing, so she contacted me anyway, and I called for Ron - you always need a good partner, in situations like this, and when we were Aurors he was the best partner I had.”  
  
Liselotte put her hand up, and Harry motioned for her to go ahead. “I don’t understand, though,” she said. “Why were there Death Eaters here in the first place? What were they looking for?”  
  
“Well, _that’s_ obvious,” said Caspian loudly. He shot an uncharacteristically hesitant look at Harry, then went on, “they were You-Know-Who’s followers, and Professor Potter took him down, didn’t he? So they were looking for him. To get revenge.”  
  
Harry felt something twist uncomfortably in his stomach. “All right,” he said quickly, “change of plan. That’s one possibility. What are the others?” He glanced around the class. “Anyone here thinking about being an Auror?”  
  
Only one hand went up: Callisto Jones, who had a quick wit and sharp tongue and was often found in some kind of trouble with Tim and Caspian, and her own close friend Perdita. This surprised Harry somewhat; he hadn’t pegged her as the type.  
  
“OK, great. But now I want you all to think like Aurors. What are your next steps? What information would you need when something like this happens?”  
  
“How they got in,” said Isobel immediately.  
  
“Definitely. How might they have got in, then?”  
  
Tim scratched his nose. “Well, there are loads of secret passages. Some must lead out of the school. To Hogsmeade, probably.”  
  
“But that’s a big chance to take, isn’t it?” Aneurin countered. “Just turning up last night and hoping there’d be a passage they could get in through? Even if they knew them from when they were at school, they could have been sealed.”  
  
“They won’t have just turned up,” said Callisto. “They’ll have been planning this … they could have made themselves invisible when we were in Hogsmeade and slipped through the gates then, and been on the grounds since.”  
  
“Good,” Harry said approvingly, nodding at her. “You’re thinking outside the box.”  
  
“Or,” she went on, “they’ve got someone inside the school working with them, who let them in.”  
  
This was something that had not yet occurred to Harry, and he considered it with some concern: there had not been anyone else roaming around on the Map (that it had shown, anyway), and there were no children of Death Eaters in the school … but what about the staff? It wasn’t out of the realms of possibility. He made a mental note to follow it up, then threw another question to the class.  
  
“What do you think their plan was? Aside from killing me,” he added, seeing Caspian open his mouth.  
  
“It probably depended on what happened,” said Callisto thoughtfully. “Surely they had to have realised that it was down to chance - anything could have gone differently to how they’d planned it. I mean, you don’t live in the castle, for a start, I bet they didn’t know that.”  
  
“McGonagall could have gone after them straight away, without contacting you,” Esther suggested.  
  
“Wouldn’t they just kill her, though?”  
  
“Can McGonagall be killed?” Tim wondered aloud. “She sort of gives off the vibe that she’d just give you a stern look if you tried.”  
  
“So,” said Liselotte, “so, they come across McGonagall - they might have threatened her, mightn’t they? She says you’re not there, they say, well, you’d better get him here, on false pretences, or we’ll kill you. Or the students.”  
  
“Right, and McGonagall calls you -”  
  
“No,” Harry interrupted. “She wouldn’t.”  
  
Most of the class looked baffled. “But if it were a choice between her life, and the rest of the school -” Isobel started tentatively, “surely she would …?”  
  
“Well, I wouldn’t,” said Harry. “And if I know Professor McGonagall like I think I do, I’m fairly certain she would never hand over someone else to save her own neck.”  
  
“That’s ridiculous.”  
  
This came from one of the Slytherin girls, Jenna Lacey, who had spoken from her usual seat at the back. She preferred, Harry was learning, to listen and form her opinions carefully before speaking, so any interjection was unusual. Her tone wasn’t rude, but she looked slightly exasperated.  
  
“What do you gain from risking yourself and others to save _one_ person - a person they’d still try to kill anyway?” she said bluntly.  
  
“Personally,” said Harry, “I’d always see the third option … fight. Try and save everyone.”  
  
“But that’s an enormous risk. You could lose far more people than if you’d just surrendered that one person in the first place.”  
  
“It isn’t about that, though, is it?” Callisto said, before Harry could respond to Jenna himself. “I don’t think I could send a message to an innocent person and be like, oh yeah, it’s fine, when you knew you were leading them to their death. I’d have to live with that. You’ve _got_ to try something else.”  
  
“The Death Eaters wouldn’t,” Jenna pointed out.  
  
“Yes, and that’s important,” said Harry, shifting against the desk. “In a way, someone fighting against the Dark side is always at a disadvantage because they won’t go to the lengths that the other side will. They _can’t_. Those who kill in defence, in battle … I’m sure they live with that forever. But a distinct part of being Dark is a lack of remorse.” He paused, marshalling his thoughts. “Lack of remorse, and cowardice. I know for a fact that there were Death Eaters who felt regret. But they were likely the ones who were driven by cowardice: they were too afraid to get out, or to say no in the first place. They were too afraid of what would happen. Or, otherwise, power was more important to them than anything else.”  
  
“And they hated Muggles,” said Caspian, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Which doesn’t make sense, anyway. If they thought they were so inferior, then why d’you need to get rid of them?”  
  
“Fear of the unknown,” Isobel mused. “You get it in all walks of life, don’t you? Hate is motivated by fear and ignorance.”  
  
“Exactly,” said Harry. “And when you believe that people being different to you is a bad thing, you become capable of terrible things, I think. Some more than others, but it’s a very dangerous thing to believe.”  
  
Callisto was nodding. “Look at racism - slavery, and Apartheid. Even in London now people still look at me and my parents funny because we’re black - even if they’re just _wary_ , it’s still thinking of us as different, isn’t it? Not the same as them. Remember that time I was staying at yours in the hols?” she added to Iona McKenzie, who was sitting next to her. “And your grandparents came round? Your gran looked at me dead surprised, and then I heard her say to your mum later, _oh, you didn’t mention that she was friends with a darkie._ ”  
  
Iona grimaced. “I know. Mum said it’s just the way she was raised, but …”  
  
“Sorry,” said Jenna, “but going back to before - McGonagall wouldn’t have handed you over, and those Death Eaters attacked students anyway - aren’t we taking that a bit lightly? They could have killed us all! _That_ would have been their other plan, wouldn’t it? Hold us at ransom until you surrendered yourself? Who’s to say they wouldn’t have killed people just to make you suffer?”  
  
Harry swallowed. “Yes,” he conceded. “That’s … likely.”  
  
“Well, that shouldn’t happen!” Jenna exclaimed, her normally pale face flushed; she looked more animated than Harry had ever seen her. “We should be safe here! Why weren’t we safe?”  
  
“It was a mistake,” said Harry, honestly. “We were in a false sense of security. I don’t know if any of you remember what it was like, before, but everyone was scared all the time: you couldn’t trust anyone, couldn’t be sure that someone in your family wasn’t an imposter in disguise. Afterwards, when most of the Death Eaters were dead or imprisoned and the few remaining disappeared … it was such a relief not to feel afraid all the time. To stay paranoid would have been hard … we didn’t _want_ to.”  
  
He sighed, rubbing his jaw. He already needed to shave again.  
  
“I knew a great Auror,” he said, “who always said _constant vigilance_. Always be on your guard. People laughed at him, they thought he was batty. I used to think it must be exhausting, never trusting anyone or anything. But it made him a great Auror.”  
  
Callisto, he noticed, was listening intently.  
  
“And now I’m thinking … well, maybe he was right.”  
  
The bell rang then, echoing in the silence that had fallen in the classroom. Harry was about to tell them that they would get back on track next lesson, when Jenna spoke again.  
  
“The thing is, though,” she said, and her voice was clear as a bell, even above the scraping of hundreds of chairs from floors above and below. “They wouldn’t have wanted to break in if they weren’t after you, would they?”  
  
Harry didn’t answer. His stomach was churning unpleasantly, an odd ringing in his ears. The students trooped out to break, many heading outside to enjoy what was probably the last of the milder weather: Harry waited until the corridors had cleared before shouldering his bag and making his slow ascent to his study on the third floor. That, at least, was exactly as he’d left it: a higgledy-piggledy muddle of books and parchment on and around the desk, photographs of his friends and family on the shelves and walls. He needed to add one of Al, he thought. Ginny had already taken hundreds of pictures for their family album.  
  
He used magic to fill the kettle and set it to boil, but rootled around for a mug and the tin of tea bags by hand; he had never really got out of the habit of doing ordinary tasks by magic, and he found it comforting to do little things like this, especially when his mind was ill at ease. Setting the steaming mug down on a side table - where he would no doubt forget about it - he sat in one of the worn armchairs, where he could just about see the rooftops of Hogsmeade. He wondered if Ginny had returned to their house yet. After spending almost all day, every day with her for two weeks, it was strange to be apart, and he suddenly realised he was missing her. He wished she was there, so he would not be alone with the doubts whispering at his conscience. _  
_ _  
_ _Who’s to say they wouldn’t have killed people just to make you suffer?_ _  
_ _The thing is, though, they wouldn’t have wanted to break in if they weren’t after you, would they?_ _  
_ _  
_ The thought had been playing on his mind since he had left McGonagall’s office the previous night, but hearing someone else say it with such asperity had left him reeling. There it was, a blunt statement of fact: he was the reason Death Eaters had been in the school last night. If the outcome had been worse, it would have been his fault. The news of his appointment to the staff had been widely broadcast, handed to his enemies on a silver platter. And he hadn’t even considered it … he had known that there were still people out there who would love to exact revenge on him, but it was more of an abstract awareness, rather than something he thought about on a regular basis. No one had tried to kill him for years, and he had got used to the luxury of assuming that he would see his next birthday, rather than simply hoping.  
  
He felt a spike of fear at the thought that last night might have been in fact _his_ last night - he had far more to live for than he had as a teenager, now a husband and father, an uncle, an in-law - but the guilt settling in his stomach was prodding at him more incessantly. He’d brought danger into the castle. _He_ was a threat to the students’ safety. They could increase security and tighten safety measures, but in the end, the best way to ensure nothing like this happened again was for Harry to leave.  
  
His chest constricted. He didn’t want to go. Hogwarts was no longer the only home he had ever known, but it had found its way back into his heart again.  
  
But it wasn’t about him. It never really had been. Once he had been marked - his hand, almost unconsciously, reached up to trace the lightning bolt scar on his forehead - he had become dangerous himself … dangerous to everyone he surrounded himself with.  
  
He didn’t know how long he sat there, his forgotten cup of tea cooling, watching clouds drift across the pale sky. He heard the bell go again, and the clamour of students returning to classes, but it was hard to measure time in clouds; they seemed to move faster when you followed their path.  
  
It was a loud rap on the door that eventually shook him from his stupor. Startled, he leapt to his feet, forgetting his bad knee: the resulting jolt of pain made him stagger, colliding with the table and knocking his mug to the floor. It didn’t break, but a puddle of cold tea was now seeping into the rug that Bill and Fleur had given him.  
  
Harry swore under his breath, then shouted “it’s open!” to whoever had knocked, already turning away from the door to find his wand. He heard someone enter as he located it lying next to the kettle, and glanced over his shoulder.  
  
Gabriel Hutchinson hovered on the threshold, as if unsure whether he should have actually come in. His eyes flickered from the tea-sodden rug to Harry, gripping his wand and probably wearing a fairly frenzied expression.  
  
“Um,” said Gabriel.  
  
Harry found himself strangely pleased to see the odd child who had contributed to a great deal of his worries over the last few months. He pointed his wand at the rug, muttered  _"Tergeo"_ , and then said to Gabriel, “sit down, it’s all right, just had a spillage.”  
  
Gabriel blinked at the now spotless rug for a few seconds before awkwardly perching himself on the edge of the other armchair. Harry sank back into his own, trying not to wince as his knee twinged. It was strange to remember that they had encountered each other last night; he wondered if Gabriel was thinking the same thing.  
  
“So,” Harry said, to break the silence. “Anything exciting happen to you lately?”  
  
This earned him a half-smile.  
  
“Honestly … it took a lot of bravery to do what you did last night,” he said, serious now. “Not many eleven year olds can come up against wizards like that and come away without a scratch. I’m impressed. Very impressed.”  
  
A flurry of emotions passed over Gabriel’s face, so quickly Harry was unable to pinpoint any of them. “Professor McGonagall gave me fifty house points.”  
  
“Good. I’d have done the same.”  
  
“I don’t …” Gabriel shifted in his seat. “She said I was brave, as well. But I was really scared. I didn’t know what I was doing really, or what was happening …”  
  
“Bravery doesn’t mean not being scared,” Harry said softly. “It means being scared and carrying on anyway.”  
  
“Everyone’s like - interested in me, now. I didn’t want to have lunch with them all, ‘cos I don’t really know what they’re talking about. They know who those people were and I’ve got no idea even though I was there.”  
  
Of course. It hadn’t for a moment crossed Harry’s mind that Gabriel would never have heard of Death Eaters; wouldn’t have had a clue what those masked men were doing, or even how dangerous they were.  
  
He was twisting his fingers together compulsively, still uncertain. “And they were looking for you. They wanted to … to get you. Why? Did you know them?”  
  
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. He had never had to explain who he was before: he was more used to people explaining it to _him_. Where on Earth did you start with something like that?  
  
“It’s … a long story,” he said finally.  
  
“You mean you’re not going to tell me.”  
  
“I didn’t say that.” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “It’s just complicated. I can’t explain everything, it’ll take too long. There are books … I can ask Professor Moreno for you …”  
  
“What do you mean, books? Books about you?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Realising that Gabriel was missing his lunch, Harry reached for his bag and extracted the packed one Molly had made for him. It contained what looked like an entire loaf of bread’s worth of roast beef sandwiches, two bananas and a large slice of carrot cake. Resisting the urge to laugh, he put the box on the table nearest Gabriel.  
  
“Help yourself,” he said. “My mother-in-law seems to think I’m a bottomless pit.”  
  
Gabriel looked surprised, but tentatively reached for a sandwich, mumbling a thank you.  
  
“Right.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck, trying to decide how to begin. “Er. OK. I suppose it starts with a wizard called - well, his real name was Tom Riddle - but he called himself Lord Voldemort. He wanted to be feared, and he wanted power. He also wanted to be immortal. He got himself a lot of followers, and they called themselves the Death Eaters.”  
  
“Death Eaters?” repeated Gabriel through a mouthful of bread. He swallowed. “How do you _eat_ death?”  
  
“I dunno,” Harry admitted. “Maybe they didn’t really think it through. Anyway, they were responsible for a lot of deaths and disappearances, for years. They believed that Muggles and Muggleborns didn’t belong in the wizarding world and tried to get rid of anyone who argued that they did.”  
  
“Muggleborns … that’s me, right?”  
  
“Yes, but … you should know, that’s not the dominant view these days. There will always be people who think like that, but they’re not in the majority and not many of them have power now.”  
  
The slight tension that had appeared on Gabriel’s face eased. “I don’t get what that has to do with you, though,” he said.  
  
“I’m getting there. My mum and dad were part of a group that opposed Voldemort and his followers. Then before I was born, there was … well, this is the complicated part, but the short version is that Voldemort received information that told him - he thought - that a baby was due to be born in July, and that child was the only one with the power to defeat him.”  
  
“A _baby?”_  
  
“Yep. Me. Well, it could have been Nev-- Professor Longbottom, but it was me. My parents went into hiding, but he found them.” Harry faltered at this point; he doubted it would ever be easy to talk about the way in which his parents had been ruthlessly wiped out within the space of ten minutes, leaving him an orphan at the age of one. He exhaled again before carrying on.  
  
“My mother tried to stop him from killing me. She told him to take her instead. When she wouldn’t stand aside, he killed her, but when he tried to do the same to me … I don’t know how to explain it, really, but because she died to save me, it protected me. The curse rebounded.” He pointed at the scar on his forehead. “That’s where I got this. He couldn’t die, not really, he’d made sure of that, but he wasn’t alive, either. He was just a sort of spirit for years after that. I became famous … they called me the ‘Boy who Lived’. But when I was your age, when I started at Hogwarts, he tried to come back. He almost managed to kill me again. When I was fourteen he came back properly. I escaped, but now he was back, and had his followers again, everyone was in danger … more people disappeared, and died …  
  
“It took a long time and a lot of effort to make him mortal again. He was determined to kill me, and when we faced each other again, when I was seventeen, this time I was able to defeat him. His followers, the Death Eaters, were rounded up and put in prison - mostly. But a few managed to flee. You met them last night.”  
  
Gabriel looked stunned.  
  
“They … they were Death Eaters?”  
  
“Yes, and even though you didn’t know that, I’m sure you could tell they weren’t just friendly strangers, so it took immense courage to lie to them.” Harry had felt overwhelmingly touched when Gabriel had told him that; that he had lied to protect a teacher he’d known only a few months, in a school he didn’t like. “As you know, they were looking for me … I’m sure they planned to finish me off for good, like their leader never got to. I don’t know if they planned to take it further, so they could come out of exile, but it wouldn’t work: there are too many powerful witches and wizards who fought against them before, including the Minister for Magic.”  
  
“So … you’re famous because someone tried to kill you loads of times,” said Gabriel. Harry, surprised, found himself laughing. He was sure he remembered phrasing it himself like that once, likely in annoyance.  
  
“Pretty much.”  
  
“But they didn’t get you last night. You got them, right?”  
  
“Yes. They’ll be put on trial, I imagine, and sent to prison for life. I used to work for the Aurors - they’re like the wizard police - and I always hoped we’d get all of them, so that’s … one good thing that came out of this. As well as your fifty points for Gryffindor,” he added. “I shouldn’t be biased, but I was in Gryffindor, too.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Really,” said Harry. “Did you listen to the song at the Sorting Ceremony? I still remember what it said at mine. _Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart._ It doesn’t mean others can’t be brave - people change, as well - but you’ve proven beyond doubt that you are, probably more than many people could ever hope to be. And I don’t just mean last night, either - I mean the fact that you’re still here, even though you don’t want to be. I was half expecting you to be gone by the time I came back.”  
  
Gabriel glanced down at his hands, scrunching his face up. “Um. Actually … I sort of … changed my mind about that. I went to see you, the other week, but you’d gone. I - I want to do well here. I’m know I’m really behind, but ...”  
  
“You’re not on your own,” said Harry at once. His heart had leapt at Gabriel’s admission; but it sank again as he recalled his own decision, the one he’d made just a short time ago. “There are lots of people who can help you catch up.” He met Gabriel’ eyes, looking at him intently. “I’m really … I’m really glad you’re staying.”  
  
_I wish I could too_ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the introduction of so many new names wasn't confusing - class scenes are difficult, as I'm sure Harry would make an effort to know everyone's names, and repeating "said someone else" doesn't really work.  
> Next chapter: there's a staff meeting, we meet Naomi properly, and Hagrid is Ron Swanson, only optimistic and cheerful.


	10. Libraries Are Cool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phweeeew, this chapter kinda got away from me. Scenes kept writing themselves in my head (not so easy when you come to put them down and realise you've used 'looked' 4578475 times in a paragraph though, amirite?) and ... I hope it reads OK, anyway. Massive thanks for all the lovely comments! Honestly, I remember worrying that I definitely wouldn't have enough material for more than a few chapters, and now here I am, having to split chapters up 'cos I've got too much in them!

‘Drained’ was the word that best described how Harry felt by the end of the afternoon; he struggled through his remaining three lessons, doing his best to stay upbeat, but every time he looked at the students he heard them screaming, saw them terrified, surrounded by hooded and masked figures … a high, cold laugh … a flash of green light …  
  
His mood was not improved by Cordelia Devereaux putting her head around the door at half past three and informing him that there was to be a staff meeting immediately after the end of the school day. The image he’d had of hurrying - or as much as he could hurry - back to Inglenook and collapsing onto the sofa dissolved before his eyes. When four o’clock came and the students filed out, he took up a piece of parchment to let Ginny know he wouldn’t be home straight away; the charm used on the Ministry’s memos was not complex, and while they wouldn’t travel further than a mile or so, they still came in useful. He dipped his quill in ink and scrawled a brief note - ‘Staff meeting will be late sorry love Harry’ (he was not the writer of the two of them) and tapped it with his wand to turn it into a small paper aeroplane. Launching it out of the window, he watched it flit over the grounds towards Hogsmeade, then made his painful way down to the staff room.  
  
The fire had been lit, softening the stone walls, and the staff were slowly gathering, talking amongst each other in small groups. Harry saw several conversations stop when he came in, and was very grateful that the nearest people to him were Neville and Hagrid, not least because Hagrid was so large he served as an effective barrier to stop anyone else approaching.  
  
Neville immediately expressed his disappointment that he had not been there the night before, something the Neville of ten or so years before would never have done.  
  
“I would have liked to have taken a few Death Eaters down,” he said sadly.  
  
“Er … sorry,” said Harry, not really sure how to respond to that.  
  
“Came ter the rescue again, didn’ yeh?” Hagrid raised his great bushy eyebrows. “Don’ know what we’d do without yeh around.”  
  
Harry shifted uneasily, but was saved from answering by Bernice, who had just loudly asked the room at large who wanted tea. Any further conversation was immediately drowned out by the volley of requests as the staff jostled each other to make sure theirs was heard.  
  
“I will, but could I have decaf?”  
  
“There are some raspberry tea bags in that box behind you - no, there -”  
  
“I’ll have a coffee if you’re making!”  
  
“Remember, mine’s the china mug -”  
  
Bernice caught Harry’s eye through the melee and pulled a comical face of despair. He didn't blame her; he had unwittingly offered to make drinks at break time in his first week and wound up more stressed than in some field operations with the Aurors. He'd actually been glad when the bell had rung.  
  
When everyone was settled in the mismatched armchairs and sofas around the room, McGonagall cleared her throat from her place towards the front, facing everyone else. In contrast to most of the staff, who were slumped in their seats after a day’s teaching, she was sitting ramrod straight on a hard-backed wooden chair.  
  
“I shan’t waste anyone’s time,” she said briskly without any preamble. “You are all aware of the events that took place last night. Naturally I am taking the matter very seriously, and I believe it raises some issues that we need to consider as a staff. Security and safety is one, but before we get to that I would like to talk to you about the first year student Naomi Hopkins, who was involved in the incident.”  
  
“She’s all right, isn’t she?” The other Potions mistress, Sirona Brewell, looked worried. “I don’t quite understand how she came to be involved, I must admit -”  
  
“She was sleepwalking,” said McGonagall. “We suspect it may have been a fairly regular occurrence, as the other Gryffindor girls have revealed that they had on occasion woken to find Miss Hopkins returning to bed, but she did not speak to them and showed no recollection upon questioning the next day, which is common with sleepwalking. Madam Pomfrey is concerned, for she believes Miss Hopkins to be suffering from strain and anxiety;  she is showing signs of exhaustion and having overworked herself considerably.”  
  
Bernice was shaking her head; Harry supposed that as Naomi’s head of house, she must have been told before the meeting. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice,” she said unhappily. “I just thought she was quiet …”  
  
Galena Moreno, the handsome olive-skinned witch who taught History of Magic, patted Bernice’s arm. “You’re not the only one who teaches her. I had her down as quiet, too.”  
  
Several other teachers nodded in agreement.  
  
“Besides,” Galena continued, “she always seemed very able to me - I shouldn’t have thought she needed to overwork herself?”  
  
“I think I can answer that,” said McGonagall. “Miss Hopkins is the granddaughter of Miranda Goshawk -”  
  
The name rang a bell in the dusty depths of Harry’s memory. “The one who wrote all the _Standard Book of Spells_ books?” he blurted out without thinking, his face growing warm when faces turned towards him again.  
  
“Precisely. Her mother, one of Miranda’s daughters, was extremely academic herself and has made it very clear to her own daughters that she has high expectations of them. Naomi has four sisters - all older - and all high achievers. I don’t doubt that she feels a great deal of pressure to succeed.” McGonagall paused, and Harry thought he saw her eyes linger on Neville as she looked around at the staff. “Expectations like that can be a positive stimulus, but personally I have found that more often than not they have the opposite effect … children feel they will never live up to those who came before them, and do not recognise their own potential.”  
  
“Well, she needs help with that then, doesn’t she?” Professor Vector said briskly. “I don’t teach her myself, but a bit of encouragement here and then, boost her confidence -”  
  
“Quite,” said McGonagall. “All things considered, I think we as a staff can improve our … efforts, shall we say, in that area. To put it bluntly, pay more attention to our students’ wellbeing, as well as their academic performance.”  
  
Harry heard a small noise of disagreement from somewhere on his left; looking around, he saw Cadmus Heyes looking sceptical.  
  
“With all due respect,” Heyes began, and Neville threw a significant glance at Harry: both his tone and his words indicated that he didn’t, in fact, feel much respect was due. Given that he was talking to McGonagall, this did not sit well with Harry; judging from some of the expressions worn by other members of staff, he wasn’t alone in that.  
  
McGonagall raised a single eyebrow, but Heyes, apparently not recognising this warning sign, carried on. “Don’t you think that’s asking a bit much of us? I mean, we already have plenty of duties, and our job is to teach, not to fuss around the students and check if they’ve eaten their greens.”  
  
“That’s not what wellbeing is,” Bernice said tightly, looking irritated. “It’s about making sure the children are happy.”  
  
“Happiness doesn’t get good exam results,” Heyes shot back. “Hard work does.”  
  
“And aren’t they more likely to work hard if they’re confident and in good spirits?” said Hufflepuff’s head of house, Durene Thompson, who was possibly the jolliest person Harry had ever met; she had a very infectious, deep laugh and a broad smile, which she wore now as she addressed Heyes. “I agree with the Headmistress. These students are away from their families. If we don't look out for their wellbeing, who will?”

“It isn't our _job_ -” Heyes started impatiently, but McGonagall cut him off.

“We have a duty of care to our students,” she said. “I don’t for a moment imagine that any teacher in this school would disagree that we should always strive to do our best by them, whether that be offering academic support or emotional.”

“Translation: shut it,” Neville muttered in Harry's ear.

“Moving on,” said McGonagall (Heyes looked as chastened as Bertie Peasegood had earlier), “to our safety measures and procedures. Although we had gone almost seven years without a breach in the castle’s security, and I hope another incident will not occur in the future, it is fair to say that we could have done more to prevent intruders from entering the school.”  
  
“It seems so … militant, though,” Galena Moreno said with a sigh. “To secure all the entrances … aren’t we essentially imprisoning the pupils?”  
  
McGonagall sighed, too; she looked very weary.  
  
“Few of you here now were at Hogwarts in the year following Professor Dumbledore’s death. The students - and those of us on the staff who were opposed to Severus Snape’s appointment, which is to say, most of us - _were_ imprisoned, but not for their safety. Many would have been safer far away from the appalling creatures who dared to call themselves teachers.”  
  
Beside Harry, Neville had sat up straighter, his left hand apparently unconsciously tracing over a place on his other arm where Harry guessed he bore the scars of the Carrows’ reign.  
  
“When it was over,” McGonagall said, “when Hogwarts was once again in the right hands, I desperately wanted to make it a place where the students would never feel the terror that pervaded the halls over that year. No children should have to go through what they did. And when I say children, I mean even the oldest of them, such as our own Professor Longbottom, who showed nerve and daring far beyond that which should be expected of a boy of seventeen.”  
  
This time, it was Neville who fell on the receiving end of the curious stares. Like Harry, he went very red.  
  
“And yeh have,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Yeh’ve done a cracking job. Dumbledore woulda been proud, an’ yeh know I don’ say that lightly.”  
  
A few people murmured assent, and McGonagall gave him a rare smile. “Thank you, Hagrid. But clearly there are consequences. Had tighter security been enforced, our unwelcome visitors would have had a much harder time getting in.”  
  
Overwhelming guilt was building in the pit of Harry’s stomach, rising up to his chest and gripping his heart with cold hands. Bad enough, he thought, that his presence had put anyone in danger; the fact that McGonagall was now questioning herself made him feel so awful he felt slightly choked up. Hogwarts _had_ changed, and although to Harry it had felt like home almost immediately as an eleven year old, he could now recognise that after Privet Drive, almost anywhere would have felt more welcoming. Now, though - now it really was welcoming. Even the dungeons seemed warmer and more pleasant these days, and he doubted any of the current teachers would ever be a student’s Boggart.  
  
He was so caught up in his thoughts that he missed much of the discussion until he heard his name.  
  
“... will ask Professor Potter to work with the Charms department to identify how security can be improved,” McGonagall was saying. “Does that sound agreeable?”  
  
She was speaking to Harry, who forced his features into those of someone not in a deep state of despair.  
  
“Yeah, definitely,” he said, nodding stupidly, then stopping abruptly when her words caught up with him. She was asking _him_ to help improve security? Well, he already had a solution to that, and it wasn’t working with the Charms department. But he did not want to give his notice now, in front of everyone, and risk making a scene or looking like a martyr. He would think carefully about how to approach McGonagall and then do so in private.  
  
His dread about handing his notice in to Robards, he realised, had been due to worry about the reaction. What he was feeling now … well, that was something else entirely.  
  
\---  
  
In reality, only a number of people noticed Gabe enter the Great Hall for dinner, but to him the few whispers as he passed made it feel like everyone had stopped in their tracks to stare at him. It made him very uncomfortable. He sat down at the Gryffindor table and was immediately set upon by several of the boys from his class.  
  
“Hey, Gabriel!”  
  
“Listen, is it true you _punched_ one of the Death Eaters? That’s what a third year told me …”  
  
“No, he beat them in a duel, idiot -”  
  
Gabe looked helplessly at his empty plate, wishing magic had a way of making him disappear right there on the spot. He couldn’t bring himself to talk to them, not when they hadn’t given a toss about him two days before. It was funny, they reminded him a lot of his friends from school - they looked like normal kids - but he didn’t like them very much.  
  
Someone tapped him on the shoulder from behind.  
  
“Mind if I sit here?”  
  
Gabe shook his head mutely. Smiling brightly at Joshua Bobbin, whose seat he was taking, Oliver slid on to the bench and reached for a dish of boiled potatoes. He had angled himself so that he essentially blocked the Gryffindor boys from Gabe, just slightly turned away from them so that they would have to lean around him if they wanted to talk to Gabe.  
  
He didn’t know if it was on purpose, but Gabe was grateful anyway. He hadn’t seen much of Oliver recently - he hadn’t been in the classes they’d shared, but Gabe had been too wrapped up in his own wallowing that he hadn’t given it much thought.  
  
“You looked like you needed rescuing,” Oliver whispered to him, taking a steak and kidney pie and adding one to Gabe’s plate as well. “Carrots?”  
  
“Er - OK,” said Gabe, who wasn’t really used to someone his age - well, _looking after him_ like this. “Erm, I haven’t seen you around ...?”  
  
Oliver wrinkled his broad nose. “I’ve had flu. Been in the hospital wing. I only got out on Sunday. I have been thinking about how you could get out of here, though -”  
  
Gabe had forgotten about that conversation. “Oh,” he said. “Actually … I don’t really want to go now. Um, I had a letter from my mum, and she … well, I want to give it a go, I think.”  
  
“That’s great!” Oliver enthused. He looked like he really meant it, too, which seemed bizarre. “It would’ve been hard to get expelled anyway, now you’ve just earned fifty points for Gryffindor. You probably don’t want to talk about that, though?”  
  
“It’s just all a bit weird,” Gabe admitted. “Sort of … trying to get my head around it.”  
  
He picked up his knife and fork, realising how hungry he was, even after two of the enormous sandwiches Professor Potter’s mother-in-law had made for him. That was another thing he was having to wrap his head around: the fact that Potter was some sort of legend, instead of just an ordinary man who had untidy hair and pictures of his kid in his study and was quite funny for a teacher.  
  
Oliver nodded thoughtfully as he chewed. Feeling a bit bolder, Gabe seized the chance to act on something he’d been thinking about all afternoon.  
  
“I was wondering about going to see Naomi,” he ventured. “She’s still in the hospital wing. But I can’t remember where it is, I don’t really know how you get there.”  
  
“I can show you,” said Oliver at once, as Gabe had hoped he would. “Want to go after dinner?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s good … I don’t have anything to bring her though. Aren’t you meant to take like fruit or something?”  
  
“I don’t think you have to. But - hang on -”  
  
Oliver set his cutlery down with a clatter and rummaged in the pocket of his robes. With a triumphant ‘aha!’, he produced something purple and held it aloft. “Chocolate Frog,” he explained, which meant very little to Gabe, though the chocolate part made him think it was just some kind of wizard sweet rather than anything more worrying. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”

They finished their dinner and Oliver led the way through the torch-lit halls up to the hospital wing, a long, high-ceilinged room lined with crisp white beds. The school matron, Madam Pomfrey, came up to them immediately.

“Back so soon? I suppose you've missed my medicine, Mr. Goldsworthy.”

“Not likely,” Oliver replied cheekily, giving her a winning smile that was grudgingly returned. “We came to see Naomi Hopkins, actually -”

“Well, you're in luck,” said Madam Pomfrey. “She's just woken up. Last bed on the right, over there, and no longer than fifteen minutes, mind.” She ran an appraising eye over Gabe. “And how about you, Mr. Hutchinson? How are you feeling?”

“Fine … I wasn't hurt.”

“Hmph. Well, you don't always need to be ill or hurt to need taking care of. Have you talked to any of the staff?”

“Er,” said Gabe, not really sure what she was on about, “well, I saw Professor Potter today.”

That seemed to satisfy the matron, for she looked pleased.

“Good. It must be a record, that man being at Hogwarts for longer than a month without paying a visit to me … I suppose he doesn't think I know about his leg, but I'm hoping he's got more sense these days …”

She bustled off, muttering to herself. Oliver shot Gabe an amused look as they went to the other end of the room. “What was that about? D'you think Professor Potter had a lot of accidents at school?”

“Dunno,” said Gabe truthfully. They reached the last bed, and he slowed, falling slightly behind Oliver, feeling awkward. Naomi was sitting up in bed, pale-faced, her eyes no longer blank, but alert. They also looked surprised as she clocked her visitors.

Oliver, who didn't seem to be familiar with the concept of awkwardness, bounded forwards. “How are you doing? Here, we brought you this, though I don't know if Madam Pomfrey likes you having chocolate in here.”

Naomi took the offering, turning it over in her hand. “Thank you,” she said, still sounding surprised. “That's really nice of you.”

“Gabe's idea,” said Oliver, nodding at him. Gabe gave an awkward smile and shuffled forwards a bit.

“Um, hi,” he said. “Er, I don't know how much you remember about last night …”

“Nothing,” Naomi said ruefully. “I only know what I've been told. I couldn't believe it! I'm really sorry I got you into all that -”

“No, it was me, I shouldn't have followed you -”

“If you hadn't I might have been dead,” Naomi countered, “so I think that makes us even, right?”

Gabe smiled. He hadn't really heard her speak before, and she had a pleasant voice, stronger and bolder than he would have imagined from her quiet demeanour.

“I can't believe I was sleepwalking.” She shook her head, fiddling with the box in her hands. “I must have looked so stupid. And now I'm in here and I've missed a day's lessons already, and I've not handed in my homework, I'm going to be really behind -”

“I missed two weeks!” said Oliver. “The teachers know you can't help being ill. Mine have already talked to me about catching up, though it'll mean more work.”

“I don't know what I'm doing at all,” said Gabe.

He hadn't planned on saying that: after all, he didn't want to look thick. But Naomi looked so panicked, and Oliver so calmly accepting of the fact that he was behind, that the words just tumbled out of his mouth.

“You're dead clever,” he added to Naomi. “A few days won't put you behind. Me … I've hardly missed any lessons and I'm bottom of everything.”

Naomi seemed to be debating whether or not to say something. Finally she hedged, “Well … you haven't tried that much, have you? I’m not being mean, I just -”

“I want to though, I just don't know where to start.”

Oliver’s eyes lit up; Gabe could practically see the cartoon light bulb appearing over his head. “We can help each other!” he said excitedly. “We can catch up, and Naomi, you could sort of tutor Gabe -”  
  
“You don’t have to do that,” Gabe said hurriedly, at the same time as Naomi protested, “I’m not clever enough to tutor anyone!”  
  
Both Oliver and Gabe looked at her incredulously. “You only have to be cleverer than me,” Gabe pointed out. “I don’t even know if cleverer is a word.”  
  
Naomi chewed her lip, looking anxious. “I’m not sure …”  
  
“I mean,” Gabe said, “you really don’t have to, but - if you did want to … I do want to catch up.”  
  
He didn’t really like the idea of anyone having to tutor him, let alone a girl his own age, but he meant it: he did want to make an effort. Try at something other than getting to the top of the Premier League in FIFA on his Playstation.  
  
“Um,” said Naomi. “Well … if we were all studying together, I suppose …”  
  
“Yes!” Oliver looked positively ecstatic. “We could meet a few evenings a week, or more, in the library -”  
  
Gabe wrinkled his nose. “The library?”  
  
“Libraries are cool,” said Oliver unabashedly. “Especially the one here. There are loads of cool books.”  
  
“If you say so.”  
  
Naomi, her expression slightly less anxious, was opening her Chocolate Frog seemingly without realising: Gabe noticed that her fingernails were bitten down to the quick. “I suppose it’s worth a try,” she said. “Just us three though, OK? And if we keep it sort of … quiet?”  
  
“Well, all right,” said Oliver, though he sounded a bit puzzled. He nodded at the chocolate. “Hey, who’ve you got?”  
  
“Um …” Naomi extracted a card from the packaging and examined it. “Oh, it’s Professor Potter.”  
  
“Er, what are you talking about?” Gabe asked. “What d’you mean, it’s Professor Potter?”  
  
“Chocolate Frogs have Famous Witches and Wizards cards in them,” Naomi explained, passing him the card. “You can collect them. Have that if you want, I’ve already got him.”  
  
“Oh, sort of like Pokemon?” Gabe didn’t wait for an answer (Oliver and Naomi just looked confused), but peered down at the moving photograph on the front. Potter squinted up at him, looking as if he wasn’t that comfortable in front of a camera. On the other side, there was a short description.  
  
_Quite possibly the most famous wizard of modern times, Harry Potter (b.1980) is best known for his numerous defeats of the Dark wizard known as Lord Voldemort, beginning in 1981, when he became the only recorded person to have survived the Killing Curse. In 1998, he defeated Lord Voldemort for good, after which he joined the Auror Department at the Ministry of Magic and worked to rebuild and revolutionise the post-war government. He married professional Quidditch player Ginevra Weasley in 2002._ _  
_ _Mr. Potter is an avid Quidditch fan and enjoys crossword puzzles and cookery._ _  
_ _  
_ It would have been much more of a shock, Gabe mused, had Potter not already told him some of this. Still, it was very peculiar to see him described as _possibly the most famous wizard of modern times_ .  
  
\---  
  
Possibly the most famous wizard of modern times was dying to get home and put his slippers on. The lights were blazing in the house as he approached, shivering slightly in the chill that had fallen with night. Ginny would probably have lit a fire … perhaps Molly would have sent a meal …  
  
He unlocked the door with his wand and limped wearily inside, tossing his bag and cloak in the cupboard under the stairs, mind already on his comfiest pair of pyjama bottoms.  
  
“Good day?”  
  
Ginny came out of the living room, smiling tiredly at him.  
  
“Er … yeah, fine,” Harry lied, which made him feel horrible, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell Ginny what he was thinking. He knew she would try and talk him out of it, tell him he was being stupid and noble again … and he wanted to stay so desperately that he knew he might let her …  
  
“Ron sent a message. He said he was making a casserole and would bring it over about six, as he didn’t think we’d feel like cooking.”  
  
“Oh, right. That’s nice of him.” He wondered if he could still get away with putting his pyjama bottoms on. “How have the boys been?”  
  
“Delightful,” said Ginny, her voice laden with sarcasm. “Al threw up on me twice and James threw a paddy because I had to change Al’s nappy when he wanted me to play with him. He’s decided he doesn’t like having a brother and told me he’s going to throw him in the bin.”  
  
“... I’ll put a Childproofing Charm on the bins.”  
  
“Good call. Al’s asleep now if you want to go and see him, then maybe you could take James while I change into something that hasn’t clearly had baby vomit on it?”

Harry quietly made his way upstairs to the nursery, slipping silently through the door into the softly lit room. Al lay on his back in a Holyhead Harpies babygrow (Harry hadn’t been aware they made those), hands curled into tiny fists above his head. Harry stood at the foot of the cot for several minutes, staring down at his son. Would there be a day when he - or James, or Ginny - would be in danger because of who his father was?  
  
One of the four wooden owls on the cot’s posts gave a soft hoot. When James was born, Hagrid had presented them with the beautifully crafted cot, carved from walnut: Hermione had encouraged him to begin studying again and helped him gain functional skills qualifications, which allowed him to have a wand again. Since then, he’d started using magic for woodwork, and Harry had been so overcome by the gift - the owls, he thought, looked just like Hedwig - that he had been unable to do anything but stammer incoherent thanks for about ten minutes. When James had outgrown the cot, with Hermione’s assistance, it had been Transfigured into a small bed, and Hagrid had produced another cot upon Al’s birth.  
  
He watched Al sleep for another few minutes, then ducked into his bedroom to swap his robes for jeans and a sweatshirt (he threw his pyjamas a longing look). Returning to the hall, he changed places with Ginny; James, who was playing with his plush dragons on the living room floor, promptly abandoned them at the sight of Harry and cannonballed into his legs.  
  
“Careful!” Harry just managed to maintain his balance before his bad knee gave in and swept James up into his arms, then staggered to the sofa and sank into the cushions. He could almost hear his aching muscles sigh with relief, and felt a jolt of resentment when he remembered he would have to move from his spot and be sociable in less than half an hour.  
  
“Daddy,” James said happily, patting his cheek. “Prickly.”  
  
“What? Oh … yes, Daddy needs to shave.”  
  
James nodded, as if that was what he’d suspected. “I shave the tat.”  
  
“No, you don’t,” said Harry firmly, wondering if he could put a Childproofing Charm on the poor cat, too. “And you don’t put Al in the bin, either. He’s your little brother, you have to look after him.”  
  
“Hmmm,” said James, which didn’t sound like much like assent to Harry. He decided to change the subject.  
  
“Who do you want to read your story tonight, Jimjam? Me or Mummy?”  
  
“Yessss.”  
  
“That’s ... not really an answer. OK. Me, then.” Harry extracted one arm from around James and rubbed his tired eyes behind his glasses. He didn’t mind; if he had still been an Auror, he would hardly have been able to read James’ story at all.  
  
Would he have to go back to the Aurors? No, he couldn’t do that - especially with how Robards had acted last night … last night, had it really only been then? A decade seemed to have passed since …  
  
The doorbell chimed. Harry got gingerly to his feet, shifting James to his hip, and shuffled into the hall to answer it. Ron and Hermione stood on the doorstep, Ron bearing a large casserole dish, Hermione a wrapped package that Harry had a horrible suspicion held some misshapen piece of knitwear for Al.  
  
“Won!” James shouted excitedly in greeting. “Books!”  
  
Harry and Ron both grinned; Hermione looked peeved. ‘Books’ was the name Ron had suggested for her when James was learning to talk and would clearly have problems with his godmother’s actual name. Hermione had not been keen, even when Ron pointed out that the alternative was probably ‘Hermy’, like Grawp had called her, which she hated even more.  
  
“Hey, mate,” Ron said, extending his hand for a high five. “Can I get a cuddle?”  
  
“Hmmm … Books tuddle first.”  
  
Hermione cast a smug look at Ron as she took James from Harry, who stood aside to let them come in. Ginny met them at the foot of the stairs: Harry was rather miffed to notice that she had put _her_ pyjamas on.

“I just had a baby and all clothes are uncomfortable, deal with it,” she told him in an undertone, giving Hermione a hug. They gathered around the scrubbed wooden table in the kitchen, James insisting on sitting in between his godparents, even though Ginny reminded him that he would have to go for his bath and bedtime soon.

“Stay!” he argued, a fiercely determined glint in his eyes.

“Til pudding,” Ginny allowed. “Then it's bath and bed and no arguments.”

“Oh, good,” Ron said to James, “I'm glad you're staying for dinner, I'm starving.”

“I not dinner!”

“What's that? Mm, these feet look delicious, don't they?” Ron reached for one of James’s, clad in a sock patterned with snitches that was remarkably filthy considering he'd not been outside in them, as far as Harry knew. James shrieked with delight as Ron pretended to nibble at his toes.

“Nooooo! I eat YOUR feet!”

“You don't want to, mate. But yours … mmm. Very tasty.”

“That's great, get him wound up before bed,” Ginny said sarcastically. “Unless you'd like to give him his bath?”

“No problem,” said Ron, now tickling James's feet and raising his voice to be heard over the peal of giggles. “Just drop him in the water and wait til the bubbles stop, right?’

“Trust me,” Harry said drily, “the bubbles don't ever stop.”

Hermione shot a baleful look at Ron. “Yes, that's something they don't grow out of, apparently.”

“Everyone needs a hobby,” said Ron, cheerfully unoffended. “Right, Jimmy?”

“I trump!” James exclaimed gleefully, though how he'd caught on to the subtext of the conversation Harry wasn't sure. More likely, it was a coincidence and he was just announcing his accomplishment to the adults.  
  
“So,” Ron went on, addressing Harry as he poured Hermione a glass of wine, “guess whose names you won’t be seeing in the paper tomorrow?”  
  
“Let me think … wouldn’t be ours, would it?”  
  
“They sent the press release to them earlier today.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s going to say that Selwyn and Rowle were _detained in Scotland_ and are awaiting trial. I saw Robards in the lift this morning - he gave me a really nasty look.”  
  
“Should’ve kicked him in the -”  
  
“Ron!”  
  
“... Bludgers,” Ron amended hastily. “Anyway, it’s not our fault that we’re better at his job than he is.”  
  
Hermione looked inquiringly at Harry. “What was it like at Hogwarts today? Was anyone talking about it?”  
  
“Hmm? Oh … yeah, a bit ...” He focused intently on his plate, trying to make his expression neutral. To his relief, conversation turned to Hermione’s latest battle over removing pro-pureblood legislation, and then Ginny’s book on the history of women in Quidditch; as the plates were cleared, however, Hermione brought up the subject of Hogwarts again, and Harry seized James’ bedtime as an excuse to escape.  
  
James went very reluctantly, wriggling furiously in a bid to free himself from his father’s arms and complaining at the top of his voice about missing pudding.  
  
“It wasn’t anything you like,” Harry lied, carrying him out of the kitchen with some difficulty. James twisted around and stared him out, trying to detect whether or not this was true.  
  
“Pudding?” he said suspiciously. “I yike pudding.”  
  
“Not this one, it was … broccoli. Broccoli in custard.”  
  
James made a loud retching noise. Grinning, Harry bathed him (he never remembered to cast an Impervius Charm before doing so; bath time always ended with him looking as though he’d been for a swim with the giant squid), got him into bed and read _The Little Puffskein_ , a firm favourite that required several silly voices. James nodded off towards the end in the same way he always did - half-sitting up, determined to stay awake at all costs.  
  
Harry lingered for a while, listening to his eldest son’s even breathing, before returning to the kitchen. He was not especially disappointed when Ron and Hermione announced that they had better be making a move sometime after nine, as Hermione had a morning meeting and Ron opened up the shop on the days when George was at home with his nine month old son. All he wanted was for this day to be over: it seemed impossible that it was still Tuesday. He wondered about enquiring whether there had been some kind of incident in the Time division of the Department of Mysteries, as he was sure there had already been far more than twenty-four hours in the day so far.  
  
Ginny bemused him when they retired to bed by changing into a different set of pyjamas once she had brushed her teeth.  
  
“I’m not going to sleep in the same pyjamas I had dinner in, I’m not an animal,” she told him frankly, though Harry could not quite see the difference. As far as he knew, most animals didn’t wear pyjamas at all.  
  
He winced sharply as he pulled off his jeans and tugged his pyjamas over his injured knee: it wasn’t at all happy about him having been on it most of the day, but he hated teaching from behind the desk.  
  
“Come here,” said Ginny, motioning for him to sit on her side of the bed and reaching for a small glass pot on the bedside table. “Take your trousers off.”  
  
“I dunno, I think I’m too tired for that ...”  
  
“Good, because _that_ isn’t going to be happening for some time.” She stuck her tongue out as he sat down with a creak and a groan (everyone’s bones ached like that at twenty-five, right?) and shucked off his pyjama bottoms using his foot. “I remembered I had this left from when I hurt my shoulder … it should help.”  
  
She uncapped the jar and scooped a little bit of purple salve out with her fingertips, then gently massaged it into Harry’s knee. It had the immediate effect of making him feel as if he’d just settled it into a hot bath, the tension and ache dissipating, the muscle relaxing … he groaned again, closing his eyes … despite Ginny’s pointed comment, he could not help getting somewhat excited simply from her touch, her nimble fingers gliding across his skin …  
  
“Good thing you didn’t hurt your arm,” he heard her say from somewhere beside him. His eyes snapped open. She was watching him with a particularly wicked grin, evidently very amused.  
  
“That’s - I didn’t -”  
  
“I can leave you alone, if you’d like -”  
  
“That’s the opposite of what I’d like,” Harry said fervently before he could stop himself. He muttered a few rude words in response to Ginny’s delighted cackle and scooted over to his side of the bed. He removed his glasses and crawled under the covers, trying urgently to think of something thoroughly non-exciting.  
  
_How about the fact that you’re planning to hand McGonagall your notice when you’ve plucked up the courage to do it, and you haven’t told Ginny, and you’ve no idea what’s going to happen? How about knowing that you might have to leave this house, because you won’t be able to bear having Hogwarts in walking distance and not being there?_ _  
_  
Yes, Harry thought sombrely. That worked.  
  
He turned over to ask Ginny if she wanted light to read and found her watching him again, this time with no trace of amusement. Her brown eyes seemed to be scanning his soul in that way she had. _Don’t have worked it out_ , he begged of her silently. _Don’t have realised what I’m planning …_  
  
“Harry …”  
  
He tensed again, mentally reminding himself of his arguments, of why it was the right thing - no, the _only_ thing, to do -  
  
“... never mind.” She leant in and brushed her lips against his; he felt a sudden urge to cling to her, kiss her hard, lose himself in her and forget for just a short while about what he was giving up. “Night,” she said, rolling over onto her side and extinguishing her lamp.  
  
“Night,” said Harry into the darkness, feeling something cold creep over his body, like the first sign of a Dementor approaching.  
  
It was a long time before he fell asleep.  
  
\---  
  
He woke early the next morning, eyes burning with tiredness from the unsettled night - he had woken several times, and when he did sleep, he was plagued with dreams of himself in strange futures, like working at Uncle Vernon’s drill company. At one point he was taking a casserole over to Inglenook, because he no longer lived there, but Ginny still did, and she refused to let him in, saying he couldn’t see her in her pyjamas …  
  
According to his watch it was well before the time he needed to get up, but he did anyway, rubbing a bit more of Ginny’s salve on his knee before dressing and slipping quietly out of the house. It was still mostly dark outside, only a faint sliver of gold on the horizon, and the air was cool and fresh. There were no signs of movement up at the castle or in the grounds. Instead of heading towards the steps, Harry turned and tramped across fallen leaves carpeting the lawns, down to the edge of the Forest, which looked even more forbidding than usual in the half-light.  
  
In there he had gone to meet his end … thoroughly unaware that he would survive, and go on to marry the girl he loved, and have a family of his own. It wasn’t the same thing, really - then, he’d had to sacrifice his life; now, he was having to give up a job he’d had for just a few short months. But he loved it: it had felt, he realised now, like the final piece of the puzzle falling into place to make him content. There were problems and sadnesses in life, there always would be, but for the last few months he had had a happy family and a job that felt _right_ and it had been like _oh, right,_ this _is how it’s supposed to be_.  
  
But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he wasn’t meant to live happily ever after; did anyone, really? But he, more than most, he was something standing in the way of other people’s lives - their chances of survival - Voldemort had marked Harry not just as a threat to him, but to everyone … while there were people out there that wanted Harry dead, there were people who were willing to take out anyone in the way …  
  
A chill that had nothing to do with the November morning went through him. He stared, unseeing, at the dark trees, the place where he had gone to die; so lost in his thoughts that he did not hear the crunching of leaves underfoot behind him, and remained unaware that he was no longer alone until a voice came out of the gloom.  
  
“All righ’ there, Harry?”  
  
It was Hagrid. He cast a wary glance into the Forest before nodding genially at Harry.  
  
“What’re yeh doin’ round here at this time, then? Little one keepin’ yeh up?”  
  
“Something like that,” said Harry vaguely. The concerned look in Hagrid’s beetle black eyes told him he was not getting away with it that easily.  
  
“Why don’ yeh come and have a cuppa, it’s a bit nippy ter be moonin’ about outside at this time.”  
  
“I wasn’t _mooning_ ,” Harry protested, but he followed Hagrid back to his cabin anyway: his hands were getting numb, and Hagrid would be suspicious (not to mention hurt) if he refused the invitation.  
  
“Should hope not, you a teacher an’ all,” Hagrid chuckled. He ushered Harry into the little wooden hut and squeezed in himself, proudly drawing his wand to boil the kettle with a rather unnecessary flourish. Harry sat down and was immediately set upon by Hagrid’s Great Dane puppy, Brutus, who was determined to give Harry’s face a good licking.  
  
“Get down, yeh daft dog,” said Hagrid, tugging the puppy (if you could call him that - he was already enormous) back by his collar. “There yeh go -” he set a steaming bucket-sized mug down in front of Harry and sat heavily across from him with his own. “Tha’s better. Now, are yeh goin’ ter tell me what’s got yeh lookin’ like that this early in the mornin’?”  
  
“What?” said Harry, spilling a bit of tea in his alarm. He mopped it up with his sleeve, panicking. Hagrid wasn’t usually the type to go about things so bluntly. Hermione, on the other hand … “I’m just tired, I didn’t sleep much.”  
  
“That’s not it, yeh had a face on yeh yesterday at the staff meetin’, too. Somethin’s wrong with yeh, I know it.” Hagrid squinted at him, then added confidently, “Yeh’re miserable, that’s it.”  
  
“How - what makes you think I’m _miserable_?”  
  
“I’ve known yeh for longer than five minutes, that’s what.”  
  
“I’m fine,” Harry said forcefully.  
  
“No yeh’re not. All righ’, if yeh won’t tell me ..” Hagrid scratched his beard, apparently thinking hard. “I saw yeh last week, with little Al, and yeh were fine then, but yesterday yeh were lookin’ like yeh’d been slapped around the face with a wet kipper -”  
  
“How do you know what that looks like?”  
  
“I reckon,” Hagrid continued, ignoring Harry, “I reckon, it’s summat ter do with them rotten blighters that broke in the other nigh’. Yeh’re givin’ yerself a hard time abou’ it, telling yerself it was yer fault -”  
  
“It WAS my fault!”  
  
The words were torn from Harry in a shout as if he had no control over them whatsoever: he thumped the table hard, spilling more tea and making Brutus whimper and launch himself into Hagrid’s lap.  
  
“Don’ be daft,” said Hagrid shortly. “I knew we weren’ shot of them lot, knew there’d be some sod who tried their luck - Hogwarts is where they lost their master, isn’ it, no surprise they came back.”  
  
“That’s not why they came back here,” Harry retorted sharply. “It’s because _I’m_ here now. They were looking for me, they were going to kill me - and anyone who tried to stop them.”  
  
“Well, yeh -” Hagrid stopped mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing. He looked hard at Harry. “Hang on a sec. Yeh’re not thinkin’ o’ leavin’, are yeh?”  
  
“What if I am?”  
  
“Then yeh’re a damned fool, because that won’ fix nothin’.”  
  
“Yes, it will,” said Harry irritably. “It’ll fix the whole ‘Death Eaters breaking in and hurting the kids’ thing.”  
  
“Yeh don’ know that,” said Hagrid, starting to look upset now, “an’ besides, yeh can’t walk away from this, Harry - yeh love it here, I’ve seen yeh, yeh’re as happy as I’ve ever known yeh -”  
  
“So what? It’s no use me being happy if people are in danger, and I _won’t_ be happy anyway, knowing that something might happen at any moment -”  
  
“Yeh’re not thinkin’ straight -”  
  
“I am,” said Harry. He stood up abruptly and picked up his bag. “Sorry, Hagrid, but I’ve made my decision. I’m handing my notice into McGonagall today.”  
  
Hagrid looked wildly dismayed now. “Harry, yeh can’t -”  
  
Harry opened the door. “I’ll see you later, Hagrid.”  
  
The sun was rising properly now, casting a misty golden hue over the grounds, but Harry barely noticed it. He couldn’t keep waiting around, subconsciously hoping that someone would talk him out of it. He knew what he had to do.  
  
All was still quiet in the castle apart from Mr. Nesbitt, the caretaker, who stood aside to let Harry pass and gave him a nod. Harry didn’t know if he returned it; his mind was focused entirely on putting one foot in front of the other, carrying himself onwards, giving himself no change to stop, to change his mind, to turn back. He gave the password to the stone gargoyle guarding the Head’s office and clenched his hands into fists to try and stop them trembling as the spiral staircase carried him up to the door.  
  
Heart pounding, he took a deep breath and knocked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's one lesson I hope everyone takes away from this chapter, it's this: never offer to make drinks in a staff room. It's a living nightmare.  
> I was very keen to include Madam Pomfrey, because I grew up on Enid Blyton's boarding school books (Malory Towers all the way) and Matron was always a key background character: very kind, but all dreaded needing some of her medicine and woe betide anyone who didn't darn their socks!
> 
> Also, people might know this already but if not, 'trump' is British for fart. We do use fart, but trump was very much the word you used in childhood, and is (to me, anyway) much funnier. Other favourite terms include 'parting with the wind' and 'tooting'. This is also why the children I worked with found Donald Trump becoming president extremely funny. Such innocence.


	11. Downpour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was very amused to read that several of you saw McGonagall's conversation with Harry going pretty much as I did! This chapter was a bit of a struggle, but hopefully people will enjoy. :)  
> There's a new post on my tumblr about pre-Hogwarts education in this universe - http://glisseowrites.tumblr.com/post/182474812361/pre-hogwarts-education - for anyone who's interested!

“No.”   
  
Harry blinked. Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t that. “Er … what?”    
  
“No.” Professor McGonagall shuffled some papers on her desk into a neat pile and then looked at him, expressionless. “I don’t accept your resignation. Now, if you’ll excuse me -”   
  
“But - how do you even know that’s what I was going to say?”   
  
“I received a note from Hagrid several minutes ago. Not long after the one I received from Miss Weasley.” She surveyed him impassively. “They both informed me of your intentions. And the answer is no.”   
  
“I wasn’t  _ asking _ ,” Harry said, aware that he sounded rude and not particularly caring. “I’m telling you that I’m leaving. I’ll stay ‘til you find someone else, but -”   
  
“I have no intention of finding someone else, nor of letting a perfectly good teacher leave because of some misguided fit of chivalry.”

He gritted his teeth, irritation flaring. “If I stay,” he said, “I'm putting everyone here in danger. What happened the other night, that was because of me, they were after me!”

McGonagall listened to this with raised eyebrows, looking for all the world like she was hearing yet another late homework excuse and wasn't buying any of it.

“That may be true, but no one was hurt, and in fact the incident led us to discover Miss Hopkins’ situation.”

“They could have been hurt. They could have been killed!”

“But they weren't.”

“What does that matter - they  _ might  _ have been!”

McGonagall's eyes flashed, a dangerous sign. “Ah, I see - so we are considering all that  _ might  _ occur. Very well. In that case, we might have encountered an attack at any point in the last seven years, as Lord Voldemort's followers might have wished to return to the scene of his defeat and seek revenge on all those who aided it. They might have come for me, and attempted to take over the school. They might have placed an Imperius Curse on any student or staff member and forced them to -”

“Yes,” said Harry, growing more frustrated by the minute, “but that didn't happen -”

“What does that matter? It might have done.”

Too late, he realised he had walked into her trap. He felt a strong urge to smash something, but had a feeling McGonagall wouldn't take it as well as Dumbledore had.

“Look,” he said, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. “I know there's always been a risk, but - but you can't deny that it's more likely now I'm here. I just … can't live with that.”

McGonagall still looked impassive. In fact, she appeared mildly bored by the conversation.

“May I ask,” she said, sounding like she didn't care especially whether the answer was yes or no, “if you think that I do not take the safety of my students seriously?”

“What? No, of course not, I didn't say -”

“Do you really believe that if I thought you posed a great danger to them I wouldn't let you go?”

“But I  _ do _ ,” Harry said heatedly. “I've only been here two months and that was enough to bring two Death Eaters out of hiding to come after me -”

“And because you were there, their plan was foiled and they were arrested.”

“But they wouldn't have been there in the first place -”

“Potter, would you pay attention!” McGonagall snapped, making him jump and sending him back in time ten years to messing around at the back of Transfiguration. “We have already established that there might have been any number of reasons for them to attack the castle! The point is that if they had done so and you were not there, they may well have succeeded!”

“But -”

“Do you not understand? There is now  _ less _ incentive for anyone else to make such an attempt, because the last to do so did not come off well against you!”

“Yeah,” said Harry, more bitterly than he meant to, “but that's not common knowledge, is it? Hermione says they're not telling the public how the arrest happened!”

McGonagall had gone quite red in the face when she was shouting at him; she now straightened her hat and sat up straighter, composing herself.

“A fair point. In that case, I may have to pay a visit to the Ministry today. I accept that you and Weasley do not care about being credited, but it would not be right to let the public receive false information.”

“What are you going to do?” Harry asked suspiciously. “Bewitch Robards into giving us credit?”   
  
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said, rather cryptically. “Am I to take that to mean that you have come to your senses?”   
  
Harry wanted to say that he had never lost them, but thought that might come across as too flippant. “I still think I should go,” he said instead. “The kids  _ are  _ safer without me here. Everyone is.”   
  
He looked down at his knees, pulling at a loose thread on his robes. Images were springing unbidden into his head: his mother and father, dying to protect him; Cedric Diggory, blank-eyed on the ground, killed because Harry had wanted to be fair; Sirius, gone because of mistakes Harry had made; Lupin and Tonks and Fred and fifty others, lost in a battle he had drawn them into …   
  
“Harry, listen to me.”   
  
It was the use of his first name, rather than the unusually gentle tone in which McGonagall spoke, that made him look up.   
  
“The school has played too great a part in recent history to be entirely safe,” she said. “But I feel a good deal safer with you on the staff. That has nothing to do with who you are. It is because you possess skills and instincts that many do not, and because - more importantly - I know that you would do anything to protect those around you.”   
  
“But I  _ haven’t _ ,” Harry said desperately. “I’ve failed -”   
  
“And you have also succeeded.” She regarded him with an intensity he didn’t think he had ever seen from her; any trace of sternness or exasperation was gone. “You have been allowed to sacrifice yourself too many times. It is about time somebody stopped you.”   
  
He couldn’t know that she was reliving the moment his death had been coldly announced; the sight of his body in Hagrid’s arms, the baby left on the doorstep, the stubbornly determined eleven year old who had rushed in headfirst to save the Philosopher’s Stone. Her voice was as steady as ever when she continued: “You are an  _ asset  _ to the school, not a danger.”   
  
Harry swallowed hard against the lump that had formed in his throat. “You really don’t think I’ll put everyone at risk?”   
  
“I would not keep you on if I thought that were the case.” McGonagall paused, expression unreadable. “You did not ask to leave … but I am asking you to stay.”   
  
\---   
  
Ginny contemplated the letter pensively for a minute before folding it up and setting it on the sideboard, unable to place the emotion it had stirred. Heather had not been one of her closest friends at school, but they’d shared a dormitory for seven years and along with a few of the other girls endeavoured to keep in touch afterwards and meet up every so often, although Ginny couldn’t recall the last time she’d actually seen them. Heather’s letter, which had arrived with the morning post, reminded her that it had  _ ‘been too long!’ _ and suggested having lunch in a postscript at the bottom, but much of it was taken up by tales of her ‘amazing’ job in marketing at Gladrags, which had sent her to Milan for Fashion Week last month.    
  
It wasn’t that Ginny would have wanted that job, but she couldn’t help a slight sense of indignity that Heather, who was almost a year older, was in this glamorous job, climbing the career ladder, while Ginny - at twenty-four - was at home with two children. She still had a career, of course, she’d gone back to the Harpies when James was six months old and had a further twenty-one months with them before discovering she was pregnant again, but there was no doubt that it was much harder to be a professional sportswoman with a baby. She had plenty of people to help with childcare, but she’d still missed James terribly whenever she had to spend days away from him. And yet there was that part of her, the one that had cried furious tears when she realised she was pregnant a week after being selected for the England World Cup team, that resented the limit her children had placed on her ambitions …    
  
She took a deep breath and impulsively kissed James, who was eating his lunch, on the tip of his slightly upturned nose, inhaling the scent of his mop of dark hair. He seemed to think this was some sort of competition, for he promptly planted a very loud and slobbery kiss on her forehead, then went back to eating his sandwich.    
  
“Very nice,” came an amused voice behind her. She spun round. Harry stood in the kitchen doorway.    
  
Her heart leapt into her mouth: was he back because he had already handed in his notice? She had hoped beyond hope that Professor McGonagall would be able to talk him out of it … Ginny herself had felt horribly powerless since she had realised what was bothering Harry, knowing that nothing she said would dissuade him; he needed to hear it from someone else.    
  
“I didn’t hear you come in ... “ She scrutinised him subtly, trying to gauge clues from his appearance. “Are you all right?”   
  
Harry dropped onto a chair, rubbing a hand across his eyes and squinting blearily at her. “Stick the kettle on,” he said tiredly, “and I’ll tell you.”   
  
\---   
  
“Harry?” Beneath his enormous bushy beard, Hagrid looked bemused. “What’re yeh -”   
  
“Here …” Harry held out the box he was holding with great care. “This is for you.”   
  
He couldn’t be sure, but he thought Hagrid was already sniffling as he opened the cardboard lid and took in the lopsided chocolate cake, bearing the word SORRY in green icing.    
  
\---   
  
“You knew,” Harry remembered suddenly, shifting so that he could face Ginny. She was nestled into the crook of his arm, legs tucked under her on the sofa, playing absently with the drawstrings of his pyjama trousers. “McGonagall said you wrote to her.”   
  
“Knew you were being stupid and noble again, you mean?” Ginny tilted her head up and grinned at him. “I worked it out, yeah.”   
  
“How?”   
  
“I’ve known you for more than five minutes, that’s how.”   
  
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” demanded Harry. “I’ve had to lie loads of times, I can’t be that hard to read.”   
  
“No, not usually,” Ginny agreed. “But it’s easy to tell when you’re brooding over something. I didn’t think it would help you much if I said anything - you knew that I’d tell you to stay. That’s why you didn’t talk to me - am I right?”   
  
Harry shook his head in amazement; she read him better than anyone he’d ever known. “As usual. I’m sorry, I -”   
  
“Harry, it’s fine, I understand,” she told him. “And it isn’t stupid and noble - well, it’s not stupid, anyway. With everything you’ve been through, it makes sense that you’d think like that. You always want to protect everyone.”    
  
“I wish I could.”   
  
“I know.” She regarded him curiously. “How do you feel now?”    
  
“Odd,” Harry admitted. “I mean … I'm still not sure … But McGonagall was saying, there are other reasons the school might be attacked, and it would take longer to call the Aurors than having one on-site.”    
  
Ginny was silent for a minute, then reached for his hand and squeezed it. “I know you might not believe me, but Hogwarts will always be better off for having you there.”   
  
He squeezed back tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and letting her flowery scent soothe him, his heart rate immediately slowing, muscles relaxing. “I love you so much,” he mumbled into her hair. She leaned into him, fingers still entwined with his.   
  
“I love you so much, too.”   
  
\---

In the second week of November the heavens opened, delivering a veritable deluge of rain that flooded the school vegetable patches and sending regular waves of sodden students into the castle from Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures, dripping all over the floor and complaining mightily. Madam Quirke and Mr Morgan, who taught Games and Sports, quickly became the most unpopular teachers in the school for their refusal to let 'a bit of rain’ impede lessons, and Bernice was rushed off her feet brewing Pepper-Up Potion for the steady stream of pupils turning up in the hospital wing with red noses and sore throats. Harry, meanwhile, took to conjuring towels for his classes coming in from a lesson outside, and taught his after school club a number of useful Weatherproofing Charms. 

McGonagall’s words had made him think; made him consider the idea that he actually might be a good teacher. He wanted to be, desperately, and he thought that, in itself, might make something of a difference. Moreover, he found that he was discovering a sort of renewed joy in teaching, having almost turned his back on it: each time he crouched down beside a student’s desk to quietly talk them through a concept they hadn’t grasped, each time he made a class laugh, even when he handed back a piece of homework and saw its recipient beam proudly at the mark he’d given them … The life and spirit of the school was catching, and he threw himself into it, joining the staff in the Great Hall for lunch each day and finding himself hailed by students heading to their own tables, wanting to chat to him or perhaps just say hello.    
  
The constant downpour could not dampen the fervour surrounding the first Quidditch match of the year, which was fast approaching. Harry could have sworn the tensions between Gryffindor and Slytherin were higher than they’d ever been in his own time at school: he himself had been forced to separate two duelling fourth years with an Impediment Jinx. Gryffindor were particularly fired up, as they hadn’t won the Cup in six years.    
  
“Not since Miss Weasley captained the team in her final year, in fact,” McGonagall told Harry at lunch one day. “Hufflepuff have presented a rather formidable front in recent years, unexpectedly. I know I am meant to be impartial, as Headmistress, but I would very much like to see Gryffindor lift that Cup again.”   
  
“So would I,” said Harry, remembering vividly the feeling of holding the Cup high above his head in his third year.    
  
“I don’t suppose you could … no, of course you must be impartial too, but ..”   
  
“What do you want me to do, disguise myself as a student and take over as Seeker?” Harry asked jokingly. He was alarmed when McGonagall didn’t smile, but looked as if she was actually considering it. “Joke! That was a joke!”    
  
\---   
  
A mellow buzz of chatter and gentle clinking of cutlery and glasses filled the main room of the Three Broomsticks: not nearly as busy as it would be the next night, Friday, but a fair few villagers had sought sanctuary there from the heavy rain outside. Harry had suggested to Ginny that they eat there as a change; she was looking pale and seemed less buoyant than usual, and he worried that she wasn’t getting out of the house enough with the boys keeping her occupied. Those who frequented the Three Broomsticks tended to be a friendly lot, and he was pleased to see her smile at some of them as they wove their way to a cosy table by the fire. As they ate - intervening every so often to stop James from throwing his food at Al, who was dozing in his carrycot - Harry relayed the conversation he’d had with McGonagall.    
  
“Thinking about it, are you?” Ginny teased. “Of course, you’d have to bump off the current Seeker …”   
  
“Tempting,” said Harry, grinning, “but frowned upon, probably.”   
  
“You’re going to the match, aren’t you?”    
  
“I thought we could both go, actually.” He wiped a smear of tomato sauce off James’s nose and glanced inquiringly at Ginny, who was frowning. “Don’t you want to?”   
  
“Yes, but what about James and Al?”   
  
“James has been to matches before,” Harry pointed out. “He’ll like it. And your mum would look after Al, wouldn’t she?”   
  
“I don’t feel right asking her so much, not when she has the others during the week ...”   
  
Harry was sure Molly didn’t mind at all, but he didn’t want to push it; still, he had been looking forward to going to the match with Ginny. He opened his mouth, then closed it again when he realised he didn’t know what to say.   
  
“Um …” He heard a soft cough behind him, and turned to see Hannah Abbott hovering there, wringing a tea towel between her hands. “Sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help overhearing … I could watch Al, if you liked.”   
  
“Oh no, Hannah,” said Ginny at once. “That’s very kind of you, but we couldn’t ask -”   
  
“You didn’t. I offered.” Hannah looked anxious, but ploughed on determinedly. “I know what I’m doing, really. My cousin has four children and I’ve helped with them all. I don’t work on Saturdays, and I’d really like to help.”   
  
“Well …” Ginny exchanged a look with Harry, who gave her an encouraging nod. “If you honestly didn’t mind … we’ll pay you, obviously -”   
  
Hannah shook her head so vigorously her thick fair hair whipped her around the face. Blushing, she said firmly, “No - it’s a favour.”   
  
Thinking he would still try and slip her at least a few Galleons on Saturday, Harry thanked her as her attention was caught by another patron. Ginny watched her go, expression thoughtful.    
  
“She’s lovely, isn’t she? I wonder if Neville’s spoken to her yet … I did try and coach him a bit, but I think he needs some moral support.”   
  
“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “That, or a wand held to his head ...”   
  
\---   
  
“What exactly  _ is  _ Quidditch?”    
  
Gabe had been listening to the group of older students at the table closest to theirs discussing the subject in hushed voices for the last ten minutes, although they shut up abruptly whenever Madam Pince, the crotchety old librarian, stalked past and glared at them.    
  
“It’s a sport,” said Oliver. He didn’t need to keep his voice low, although he did anyway - even Madam Pince was swayed by his charms. “Really big in the wizarding world - there are leagues and a World Cup and everything, like with football and rugby.”   
  
“How do you play it?”   
  
Oliver ticked off on his fingers as he ran through the rules. “There are seven players on a team. Three Chasers - they pass the Quaffle, that’s the red ball, to each other and try and get it through hoops to score goals. The Keeper protects the goalposts. Two Beaters - they try and keep the other team away from the Quaffle by hitting Bludgers at them. And the Seeker, who looks for the Golden Snitch. That’s a tiny ball, moves dead fast, and if the Seeker catches it they end the game and get a hundred and fifty points for their team, so they usually win.”   
  
Gabe attempted to follow this.   
  
“So … the match doesn’t end after ninety minutes? Only when this thing’s caught? But what if neither of the Seeker people catch it?”   
  
“They will eventually. But a match can last for ages. A week, even.”    
  
“School games don't,” Naomi interjected, not looking up from the Potions textbook she had her nose in. “The snitches aren’t as fast as in professional matches.”

“Do you play?” Oliver asked her with interest. 

“No, but my dad's a huge Puddlemere United fan. Mum always said Quidditch was a waste of time.” She planted a finger on a line in the book and held it there as she wrote something in her own notebook. 

The study group was … well, it wasn't bad, as far as things went. The library, even Gabe had to admit, was pretty cool: sort of like something from a Disney film (not that he watched those, but Ruby did). There were bookshelves from floor to ceiling - he'd wondered at first how anyone got to the highest books before remembering that everyone there could do magic, and in any case, as he'd learned, all you had to do was say the name of the book you wanted and it would float into your hand. If you weren’t sure what you needed, Madam Pince allegedly knew every book in the library and the precise location of them all.   
  
Naomi and Oliver had easily caught up with their own work and turned to helping Gabe catch up with his. He never would have chosen to spend his spare time doing homework, but he couldn’t deny that learning wand movements and how to make potions was far more interesting than long division, and once he actually tried, he was surprised to find that he actually wasn’t terrible at it.   
  
His social life was a bit more complicated. Oliver usually sat with him at meals these days, and once or twice Gabe had even ventured over to the Hufflepuff table, where he found the other first years generally more friendly than the other Gryffindors. Naomi, however, was pretending she had never spoken to either of them outside lessons and continued to hang out with her group of girls. This confused Gabe. Naomi was definitely the teacher’s pet sort, the kind that handed in homework on time, so he couldn’t see why she wouldn’t want people to know she studied after school. Not to mention the fact that he and Oliver were cooler than she was, so what was the use in pretending she didn’t know them? It wasn’t like she had any reason to be embarrassed about it.   
  
This meant that after the first years’ curfew, Gabe was typically by himself in Gryffindor Tower until breakfast the next morning. Without anything much better to occupy him, he had taken to sequestering himself behind the hangings of his bed and reading until lights out. Professor Potter must have spoken to Professor Moreno, who taught History of Magic, because she had called him back after class one day and presented him with a large leather-bound book titled _Hogwarts: A History_. “If you’re interested in magical history, I’d say this is as good a place as any to start, since you’re here,” she’d told him. “It was updated several years ago, so it contains recent history, as well.”  
  
Gabe hadn’t got to that part yet - he had found himself surprisingly engrossed in what was written about the school’s founders. He hadn’t thought history could be interesting, and yet there was something intriguing about the fact that these people from medieval times had lived in the very castle he was now in. He wasn’t good enough at maths to work out how many students would have come through Hogwarts since its founding … how many would have slept in his dormitory and his bed. Professor Potter had been a Gryffindor, Gabe recalled, wondering if he might have been one of them.   
  
“You’ll come to the match tomorrow, then?” Oliver said, pulling Gabe from his musings. “I’ll even sit with Gryffindor for - oh, hi!”  
  
“Eh?” said Gabe, puzzled. He looked over his shoulder to see what had caught Oliver’s attention and saw a girl approaching their table, one he vaguely recognised from some of his lessons. She had reddish hair in long thin plaits that dangled over her shoulders and wore large, wire-framed glasses.  
  
“This is Maddie,” Oliver introduced her. “Maddie Blakely. She’s in Ravenclaw, we’re partners in Potions.”  
  
Maddie gave an enthusiastic little wave as she pulled up a chair at the table. Gabe offered her a smile, but Naomi’s face was like thunder.   
  
“I thought this was supposed to be secret,” she hissed at Oliver. “You said you wouldn’t tell anyone!”  
  
“Well - I mean, I thought we’d keep it small, but there’s no harm in inviting a few others, is there?” said Oliver, looked bewildered. “Only Maddie was saying she’s having a bit of trouble keeping up with things, and it seemed wrong not to -”  
  
“I didn’t want everyone to know about this!” Naomi snapped. She leapt to her feet and swept her books into her arms without bothering to put them in her bag, then stormed away without a second glance back at any of them.   
  
There was a rather lengthy silence.   
  
“Oh dear,” said Maddie eventually. “She didn’t seem very pleased to see me.”  
  
“I don’t know why,” said Oliver, still looking perplexed. “But I suppose I did say it could just be me and her and Gabe. That doesn’t seem that fair to me, though …”  
  
“I’ll try and talk to her,” Gabe volunteered, surprising himself. He found that he didn’t particularly mind someone else knowing he needed to do extra work. It was quite nice to spend time with others, and it wasn’t that boring, either. Both Naomi and Oliver were pretty funny, and they’d had a good laugh over some of the illustrations in their books, which looked like the artist had never seen a human being before.   
  
“I hope I haven’t caused trouble,” Maddie said apologetically. “I could work by myself, but it’s nicer to do things with company, isn’t it? Then I might not crack up so soon.”  
  
“What are you catching up with, then?” Gabe asked her.   
  
“Oh, everything.” She looked rueful. “My mum and dad are university lecturers at Oxford. They weren’t happy at all about me being a witch and coming here - I don’t think they really believe it, even now. It took Professor Devereaux ages to convince them that I needed to go to Hogwarts. They still want me to go to university, though, so I'm having to carry on with that side of things so I can do my GCSEs and A-levels. I have to send my work home so they can check I'm doing it.”

“God,” said Gabe, horrified. “So as well as all this you've got to do maths -?”

“And English, and science, and history, and geography,” she sighed. “It's a bit hard to keep up with it all.”

“I'm not surprised!”

“Have you told Professor Sweeting any of this?” Oliver asked, frowning. “He might write to your parents -”

“They'd be really upset … I'm not sure it's worth it. I can do it, I just need to work harder.” Maddie pushed her glasses, which were sliding down her freckled nose, back into place. “But I'm not very good at working on my own. I always seem to get distracted or start daydreaming and then I find it's bedtime and I've got nothing done.”

“Well, that's what we're here for,” said Oliver roundly. “To help you. And make sure you don't crack up.” He grinned at her. “Starting with taking a day off and coming to watch the Quidditch match tomorrow.”

“You don't have to twist my arm,” said Maddie, pulling a packet of Rolos from her pocket. “I'll do anything to put off working.”

Aside from wondering where she'd got Rolos from, Gabe's main thought was that he and this girl had more in common than he would have thought from first sight.

\---

Saturday morning arrived clear and breezy, without a hint of the rain that had been present for the last fortnight. It was difficult to say who was more relieved about this: the students who were playing in the match, or the many more who would be watching from the stands. 

Hannah arrived at Inglenook in good time and took Al with practiced ease.  “Make yourself at home, and help yourself to anything you like,” Harry told her, buttoning James's coat as Ginny came down the stairs. “And if there's a problem, just send a Patronus - yours is a hedgehog, right?” He stopped, blinking at Ginny. “You know you can't wear that, right?”

“Why not?” Ginny glanced down at her Gryffindor scarf in surprise. “I'm supporting Gryffindor!”

“Secretly, maybe, but I have to be impartial, and that extends to you,” said Harry. 

She grumbled, but unwrapped the scarf from around her neck and tossed it on a chair. Having checked several times that yes, Hannah knew what she was doing, and yes, they really should go, Harry hoisted James onto his shoulders and the three of them set off on the winding road up to Hogwarts.

The atmosphere was palpable at once: even those who weren't rooting for one team or the other were visibly excited, voices louder than they could usually get away with in the castle. Harry, Ginny and James were sitting with the staff, but it took a while to get to their seats, as they kept getting waylaid by students: Harry was very pleased to notice that he was garnering hardly any attention at all, while Ginny was receiving a great number of awestruck stares. 

“Please, if you wouldn't mind - could I maybe get your autograph?” a particularly bold sixth year girl asked her, presenting the back of a piece of parchment that looked remarkably like homework and a quill. “You were one of the best players ever, honest, I've been a massive fan since I was little - I was gutted when you retired -”

Ginny's head jolted up as she finished her signature. “I haven't retired,” she said quickly. “I'm on maternity leave.”

“Oh, great!” The girl clutched her autograph with shining eyes. “I'm definitely coming to your first match, even if I have to sneak out of school - er, sorry, sir -”

“I didn't hear anything,” Harry assured her. He adjusted his grip on James's ankles and guided Ginny up the staircase.    
  
Most of the staff had turned out to watch: Cadmus Heyes hadn’t, of course, but Bernice was there with her husband Alain, and she gave Harry and Ginny a cheery wave. Professor McGonagall was sitting in the commentator’s box beside fourth-year Humphrey Grant. “She doesn’t trust anyone else,” Neville told Harry and Ginny in an undertone as they sat down in the empty seats between him and Hagrid. “Not even Devereaux. I think it’s because she’s head of Slytherin - you know McGonagall and Quidditch.”   
  
James immediately scrambled over to sit on Hagrid’s knees. “Haggid! I got a boom,” he told him proudly.    
  
“I know yeh do, and yeh’ll be a crackin’ flier, just like yer mum and dad,” said Hagrid, fondly.     
  
A great cheer went up from the crowd as the two teams walked out onto the pitch. Harry felt a stab of nostalgia - and perhaps envy - watching the Gryffindors, resplendent in the scarlet robes that he himself had once worn, broomsticks in hand.    
  
“Here we go, first match of the season, and here are the Gryffindors! No change to last year’s team, but captain Flume will be hoping for a better outcome this time, in his final year - so here we have them, Webb, Flume, Chatterjee, Gilbert, Jones, Fraser and Flitcroft!”   
  
Harry knew most of them fairly well by now: he noted Callisto Jones, in particular, was grim-faced as she swung her Beater’s bat by her side. The Seeker, Edward Flitcroft, was a fifth year: fairly serious, with a thin frame that was ideal for his position.    
  
“And here come the Slytherins - Blackstock, Hennessey, Gilbert, Kerr, Novak, Cauldwell and Nye! Esther Novak takes on the captain’s role this year and has made a few changes to the line-up - let’s see how they fare!”   
  
The captains shook hands, Madam Hooch blew her whistle, and the teams kicked off, soaring high in the air … Harry vividly remembered the thrill of the first minutes of the game, and wished he was up there with them; already his eyes were scanning around for the Snitch. Ginny was sitting forward in her seat, too, following every move like a hawk.    
  
“Slytherin in possession - it’s Enid Gilbert with the Quaffle, only a second year, but she looks ready to prove herself, especially with brother Huw playing the same position for Gryffindor - speak of the devil, Gryffindor’s Gilbert intercepts, takes the Quaffle, Gryffindor in possession - that’s a nasty Bludger from Cauldwell but Gilbert holds on - he’s going for goal - shoots - SCORES! Ten-nil Gryffindor!”   
  
Harry hastily covered his triumphant shout with a cough.    
  
Gryffindor took an early lead, pulling forty points ahead in the first half hour, but Slytherin were not giving up, and they were a good team: far from the thuggish and often violent tactics they’d preferred in Harry’s time, this group’s movements were smooth and polished, the Chasers in particular working in impressive synchronisation. Their Seeker, a third year called Samantha Nye, was small and nimble, keeping herself well away from the rest of the game and circling above.    
  
“It’s forty-zero Gryffindor, but Slytherin are on the attack - Novak sends a Bludger at Flume and he drops the Quaffle - caught by Erin Hennessey - passes to Gilbert - passes to Kerr - Kerr heads for the goal - can Webb save this one? She can’t - SLYTHERIN SCORE! Forty-ten!”   
  
“That was a good goal,” said Ginny grudgingly. “Who’s your money on now?”   
  
“Slytherin,” Harry admitted, reluctantly. “It’s a good side.”   
  
And he was proven right in the next ten minutes, as Slytherin scored three more goals in quick succession, Enid Gilbert stealing the Quaffle straight from her brother and sailing it past the Keeper without batting an eyelid. The teams were tied, until Caspian Flume, red in the face by now, scored a neat goal and put Gryffindor ten points ahead.    
  
“Nye’s seen the Snitch,” said Harry suddenly, following the Slytherin Seeker, who had pulled a sharp about turn and dived, scattering the Gryffindor Beaters, who tried to block her path, but she was too quick for them - her hand was outstretched - Edward Flitcroft had caught on and was haring towards her, but it was too late -    
  
“NYE’S GOT THE SNITCH! IT’S OVER!” roared Humphrey, who was as loud as he was large; McGonagall, looking extremely displeased, scowled at him. “SLYTHERIN WIN!”   
  
\---   


The cheers and shouts of the Slytherin supporters rang in Harry’s ears as they carried the team off towards the castle; he suspected Cordelia Devereaux would be knocking at the common room in the early hours to tell them to keep the noise down. The Gryffindor team, on the other hand, stalked off towards the changing rooms with their heads down.    
  
“Well, I suppose they deserved it,” Ginny sighed. Her gaze fell on Neville, who had got up to speak to another teacher, and she gently elbowed Harry. “Should we ask Nev back to ours for a drink?”   
  
“All right, but remember Hannah’s still - oh, I see.” Harry narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re trying to set them up.”   
  
“I’m trying to give Neville an opportunity to ask her out,” Ginny corrected.    
  
“Well, fine, but we’re going to tell him she’s there,” he said firmly. “Let him decide.”   
  
To his surprise, Neville agreed, although he went slightly pale. They said goodbye to Hagrid and went back to the house; Ginny went to put a rapidly flagging James down for a nap, and Harry took Neville into the living room, where they found Hannah softly singing to Al, who was cooing back at her. She stopped as soon as she noticed Harry and Neville, going very pink in the face.   
  
“Oh! You’re back! Hi …” She offered Neville a shy smile. “How was the match?”   
  
“You tell her,” Harry said, nudging Neville into a chair. “I’ll get some drinks.”   
  
When he came back across the hall Ginny was lingering outside the living room door, clearly eavesdropping. She held a finger to her lips; Harry doubtfully leaned in and listened to the voices drifting from inside.   
  
“... was thinking of going to the garden centre tomorrow,” Neville was saying. “Um, I don’t know if you’d - well, if maybe you might -?”   
  
“That would be really nice!” said Hannah, without a second’s hesitation. Ginny made a silent gesture of triumph with her fist. “I start work at one -”   
  
“Erm, I don’t mind going earlier ... there’s a nice cafe there …”   
  
There was a short pause, then Hannah’s voice said anxiously, “Um - you  _ were _ asking me, weren’t you?”   
  
Ginny snorted and pushed the door fully open, taking Al from Hannah with a few cheerful questions about how they’d got on. Harry, passing around Butterbeers, noticed that both Hannah and Neville were now scarlet in the face, and had the sudden image of entertaining a pair of oversized tomatoes.    
  
\---   
  
The rain returned on Sunday, and Monday dawned grey and drizzly. Harry still had a skip in his step as he ambled at a leisurely pace up to the castle; even the dampest of days could not fully diminish his rediscovered enthusiasm for his job.    
  
He immediately sensed something different as he pushed open the front doors: rather than the usual rumble of chatter from breakfast, all was silent, and Professors McGonagall and Devereaux stood by the entrance to the Great Hall, unsmilingly directing stragglers inside.    
  
“Go on, quickly, Miss Chambers!” McGonagall barked. “You were told to come down ten minutes ago - hurry up, Mr Grant, in you go! Not you, Professor,” she added, spotting Harry and sweeping towards him. “You come with me.”   
  
Bewildered, Harry followed her, not towards her office as he might have thought (although he had no idea what might have happened), but down the flight of steps that led to the dungeons. The click of McGonagall’s footsteps echoed sharply in the gloom.    
  
“This was found an hour ago,” she told him grimly, coming to a halt in front of what Harry realised was the Slytherin common room. Scrawled across the concealed entrance in large red letters were the words  _DEATH EATER SCUM._


	12. Lost Sheep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The format of this chapter is a little different - only slightly, and hopefully it's still clear. There is also a LOT of talking in it. This morning I thought 'hm, this is going to be a short one'. Quarter to midnight? Seven and half thousand words. (I either write nothing, or I write five thousands words in a day - there is no in-between.)   
> Also, there is a new post on my blog (glisseowrites.tumblr.com) about post Hogwarts education! Turns out there actually ARE wizarding universities, funny how JKR forgot to mention that! 
> 
> Once again, thank you to everyone who has left comments and kudos, I love you all. As friends, y'know, I don't think we're quite *there* yet.

**Tuesday  
** **9.00 AM** **  
** **  
** _All right_ , thought Harry. _Here we go._ _  
_ _  
_He smoothed down his robes, hoping no one could see the tremor in his hands, or tell that his knees felt like he’d been hit with a Jelly-Legs Jinx as he got to his feet. For a moment, as he let himself look at the hundreds of faces staring up at him, his brain seemed to shut down entirely, his vocal chords failing with it: he had never addressed so many people at one time; how had Dumbledore made it look so easy? It wasn’t, he reflected, as though he could just say a few nonsense words and be done with it.   
  
That thought made him picture the faces of his audience if instead of coming out with something profound and meaningful he simply stood and said _nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak_ , which in turn caused him to hastily stifle a snort of laughter and pretend he was clearing his throat. Then he realised he had been standing for at least a minute without saying a word and must look a complete prat; this was more pressing than his nerves, so he cleared his throat properly and began with the first words that came into his head.  
  
\---

**Monday  
** **12.10 PM** **  
** **  
** The tip-tapping at Harry’s door pulled his attention from the homework he’d just collected in from his third years. The Slytherins in the class had looked to him somewhat like a flock of lost sheep, knowing they ought to be unsettled by what had happened but not quite sure what it meant: they had, after all, been only five or six when the war had ended. The only one among them who looked distinctly troubled was Linus Wilkes, whose great-uncle had been a Death Eater killed by Aurors in Voldemort’s first rise to power. 

The door was open, and beyond it he could see Gabriel Hutchinson hovering in the corridor. Harry waved him in.    
  
“Have a seat - er - somewhere …” He glanced vaguely around his study and the piles of papers and books stacked haphazardly on every available surface. He really need to tidy: it was a lovely room, and his messiness felt somewhat shameful. After a moment’s thought he flicked his wand at the chair in front of his desk and sent the pile there soaring over to the coffee table in a rather disorderly fashion. Gabriel, sitting down, watched this with mild fascination.    
  
He looked as well as Harry had ever seen him: at the start of the year he’d had the slightly pasty appearance of one who spent too much time shut inside playing video games, but two months at Hogwarts, with good food and regular P.E. lessons out in the fresh mountain air, had given his face some colour; the shadows under his eyes seemed to have faded slightly, too. It wasn’t just that, though - his whole demeanour was changing, almost as if he was unfurling from a shell, standing taller and looking overall more  _ present _ , no longer holding himself like he wished he would disappear entirely. Harry just wished he would develop some friendships in Gryffindor. He and Oliver Goldsworthy were a good pair, and Harry had seen him sitting at the Hufflepuff table on occasion and apparently getting on well with the other first years there, but Harry knew how lonely he had felt even in the few weeks that he and Ron hadn’t been speaking in their fourth year, and was fairly sure Gabriel couldn’t be finding it easy without a friend in his own dormitory. 

He tore himself from this train of thought and smiled at Gabriel.    
  
“Everything all right?”   
  
“Yeah … remember you told me about those people, the Death Eaters? Lord Tom Whatsit’s followers?”   
  
This was so unexpected Harry only just managed to stop a snort of laughter escaping. He wondered if people would have been quite so afraid to say Riddle’s name if he had called himself Lord Tom Whatsit.    
  
“Yes,” he said, fighting to maintain a straight face, before his brain clicked into gear and he caught on. “Is this about the graffiti in the dungeons?”   
  
Gabriel nodded. “I don’t get why it was there. What do the Slytherins have to do with the Death Eaters? None of them would have been old enough, would they?”   
  
It was a reasonable question, and Harry had to think about his answer.    
  
“A lot of Voldemort’s followers,” he said eventually, “were in Slytherin at school. Not all of them, mind, but … there’s always been an association between Slytherin and so-called blood purity - you know, not thinking people with any non-magic family worthy. When Hogwarts was founded there were witch hunts, and Salazar Slytherin - well, I don’t know if he saw Muggles as dangerous or if he hated them for what they thought about magic, but he didn’t want to take any students with Muggle blood. There’s definitely evidence to suggest he did want to attack them, from the -”   
  
“Chamber of Secrets,” Gabriel interrupted. “I know. I read it in  _ Hogwarts: A History _ .”   
  
Harry blinked at him; he’d never heard those words coming from anyone other than Hermione. “Right. Anyway, Voldemort was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin. He hated Muggles because his father, who abandoned his mother, was one. His first followers were his school friends, who were in Slytherin too …”   
  
“But - how many followers did he have? Because there are probably over a hundred Slytherins now, so if he left school in -”   
  
“Er, 1945, I think.”   
  
“OK, so there must have been loads of Slytherins after him. Did they all join him?”   
  
“No,” said Harry. “He had about fifty in his inner circle, give or take. There were people who weren’t Death Eaters but supported his ideas -”   
  
“And they were all Slytherins?”   
  
“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “Probably not.”   
  
Sitting back in his chair, Gabriel made a  _ you see?  _ sort of face. “I mean … the Slytherins in my year, they seem OK to me. None of them have said anything horrible ‘cos the rest of my family can’t do magic. But - I dunno, does being put in that house mean they’re more likely to be bad? Like, if someone else came along who thought the same way as Voldemort, would they be the ones who said all right, yeah, I agree with them?”   
  
Harry drummed his fingers on the desk as he considered the question. Gabriel was right: the first year Slytherins (and in fact, all of those he taught) seemed no more likely to be evil than any other student. There were no children of Death Eaters in the school now, did that make a difference?  _ But most of the Death Eaters weren’t the children of one,  _ he reminded himself. Lucius Malfoy, for instance - but the Malfoys had probably always been pro-pureblood … what had Sirius said about his parents? They weren’t openly supportive of Voldemort, but thought he had the right idea, which had no doubt influenced Regulus, and it would have been similar for Narcissa and Bellatrix …    
  
_ But what about Andromeda? And Sirius, for that matter … he already disagreed with all that by the time he went to Hogwarts … _ _   
_ _   
_ “I suppose,” he said slowly, “the traits that Slytherins have - self-preservation, ambition, cunning ... lend themselves better to believing in the superiority of pureblood wizards ... “   
  
Even to his own ears it didn’t sound like a particularly good explanation, and from the expression on Gabriel’s face, he didn’t think so either.   
  
“I think this house thing is stupid,” he said stoutly. “So what, anyone not in Slytherin can’t be ambitious? And it’s like saying you can’t really be friends with anyone with different …” he faltered on the right word, and amended, “anyone who’s different to you, isn’t it? We were told on the first night that your house is like your family, but people in families have like, different personalities, don’t they?”    
  
This was a good point, and Harry had to admit it. He had forgotten the introduction the first years got before they were Sorted. There was nothing to say that students  _ couldn’t  _ make friends in other houses, but when the houses slept and had free time in the same place, had the same schedules, even ate together, it was fair to say that inter-house unity wasn’t exactly encouraged. He had just never really cared, because the other houses either ignored him or taunted him.    
  
“What would you do?” he asked Gabriel, who clearly wasn’t used to being asked for his opinion, because he blinked several times in confusion and was silent for a minute or two before answering.   
  
“I s’pose … either get rid of the houses, or just put people into them randomly, you know? ‘Cos I guess it works for sports, like having competitions. But at meals and after curfew and stuff, it should be your choice who you sit with. I mean, I think,” he added quickly. “I dunno. It’s just weird to me. Like, supposedly all Gryffindors are brave and daring and whatnot, but you can’t be all the time, can you? The rest of the time you’re just … normal. Like everyone.”   
  
He suddenly seemed to worry he’d said too much and clamped his mouth shut, gazing with apparent interest at the back of a photo frame on the desk and avoiding Harry’s eyes. Harry himself felt rather dazed.    
  
“I need to go and get lunch,” Gabriel mumbled after a moment, jolting Harry from his stupor. He nodded, drumming his fingers on the desk again, unsure why he felt so unsettled all of a sudden.   
  
\---  
  
**Monday** **  
** **1.00 PM** **  
** **  
** Perhaps it was fate that Harry - with Gabriel’s words swirling around his mind - had the fifth years after lunch, or more precisely that it happened to be Gryffindor and Slytherin, who were together for O.W.L. level. Of all the house combinations, this one was the most volatile: he wondered how long the rivalry between the two had been so deeply entrenched. Where they chose to sit had not really registered with him before, but now he saw that there was a very clear divide of the houses. Slytherins sat with Slytherins; Gryffindors with Gryffindors. This tended to be the case, but there was also some mingling, usually with Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw classes. Harry tried to imagine choosing to sit with one of the Slytherins from his year, but it was impossible. He could never have been friends with any of them: they were too drastically different.    
  
He took the register and perched on the desk, narrowly avoiding knocking over an ink bottle. “Wands out today,” he told the class, smiling at the flutter of excitement this always created. “We’re going to have a go at producing a Shield Charm - you should have read up on it for homework.”    
  
A boy at the back raised his hand. “I couldn’t find the chapter, sir, so I wasn’t able to do the reading -”   
  
“Really?” said Harry drily, picking up the textbook and flipping through it. “You didn’t think it might be the one called ‘Shield Charms’, did you?” A titter went round the class; Matthew ducked his head and grinned sheepishly. “A word of advice … you need to put more effort into your excuse if it’s to be believable. But if you’re going to do that, you might as well just spend the time on the homework anyway.”   
  
He drew his own wand to demonstrate the spell, emphasising how the power put behind the spell would affect the strength of the shield. “I’m not expecting them to be especially strong on the first try - it requires practice as well. Let’s pair up, then - no, I’ll choose the pairs - and take turns throwing a jinx and blocking it with a shield. Mild jinxes  _ only _ .” He levelled a stern look at all of them. “Anyone using anything intended to harm will lose ten house points and have a detention with me.”    
  
He didn’t like threatening detentions, but he had found that warning them directly of the consequence of a particular action beforehand tended to be more effective in preventing it from happening. “Right, on your feet, then -” He stacked the desks along the sides of the classroom with a sweep of his wand and scanned the register; he liked to mix the pairings up, as students produced different results depending on who they were with - mucking around when with friends, or showing off when partnered with someone they liked.    
  
They divided up (not without a good degree of grumbling, which Harry ignored) and spread themselves out. Before he could tell them to begin, however, he noticed that Edward Flitcroft, the Gryffindor Seeker, hadn’t moved to join his partner and was instead standing stiffly, wand at his side. Freya Hawley, the Slytherin he had been paired with, lingered uncertainly by two of her housemates.    
  
“What’s the problem?” Harry asked sharply, addressing Edward, who threw a quick glance around at his friends before facing him.   
  
“I don’t really feel comfortable working with a Slytherin, sir,” he said. His tone was both unctuous and mocking; his expression implied that he thought he was being funny, but it sent a chill down Harry’s spine. It turned to anger as Edward grinned at his friends again and went on, “I’m a bit worried about what she’ll do to me - my mum’s Muggleborn, see -”   
  
“Do you think this is a joke?” 

The class fell silent at once, even though Harry hadn't shouted. He stared at Edward, oddly numb. “D'you think it's funny to say stuff like that when people died? How can -”

“I wasn't saying anything about them!” Edward said defensively. “All the Death Eaters were Slytherins, everyone knows that, I don't see why we shouldn't be allowed to say it -”

_ “You don't know what you're talking about!”  _

Harry was trying very hard not to lose his temper, but it was twisting around his chest like a white-hot rope cutting into his skin, burning him, and he could hear his voice rising over the sound of blood pounding in his ears. In the back of his head there was a voice telling him he needed to calm down, that he mustn’t lose it - he was a teacher, he had to keep his cool -    
  
He forced himself to take a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly and inwardly counting to ten, and unclenched his fists. He was not a teenager anymore: he could not start shouting in the classroom, especially not when - he recognised this with a deep, boiling shame - part of his anger was at himself.    
  
“Right,” he said. “Freya, you can join Nabin and Lorna - one can watch, and then swap.”   
  
“Who am I s’posed to go with, then?” Edward demanded.    
  
Harry drew his wand.    
  
“You’re with me,” he said shortly, feeling a flicker of grim satisfaction when Edward flinched.    
  
\---

**Monday  
** **2.30 PM**

“Angry with  _ yourself?”  _ McGonagall repeated in surprise. “Whatever for?”

Harry recounted the conversation he’d had with Gabriel. “I couldn’t explain the assumption that Slytherins were bad, and when I had my class I realised I always just accepted it, you know? I have loads of Slytherin students that are great, but I always have that  _ despite being in Slytherin  _ sort of mentality, if you get what I mean.” When McGonagall didn’t reply, he continued: “And I realised as well that I didn’t even know half the Slytherins from when I was here. I knew the ones who were gits - sorry - but I don’t know what the rest of them were like … I assumed they were the same, just quieter about it.” He paused, marshalling his thoughts. “The Chamber of Secrets, and the heir of Slytherin thing … we thought it was Malfoy, at first, because he seemed happy about it. But now I’m thinking - how did the other Slytherins react to it? How did they feel? And I feel awful, because I shouted at Flitcroft for equating Slytherins with Death Eaters when I’ve been doing the same thing for years.”   
  
McGonagall’s expression had been neutral as he talked, but now she sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I must admit,” she said slowly, “that I … am guilty of that, too.”    
  
“You’d never treat students differently!” Harry protested at once.    
  
“Perhaps not, and I imagine you don’t, either,” she pointed out. “But there are often students who are memorable for negative reasons - at school, or afterwards - and with those in mind it is all too easy to forget those who were perfectly decent. And unfortunately Slytherin  _ has  _ had more than its share of students who were interested in Dark magic. You would have seen that I was far more competitive with Severus Snape when it came to Quidditch than with any of the others. I was terribly angry when I found out that he was to be appointed to the staff; I was in the Order, remember, and I knew what he had been … While I strived to treat students equally, he was never afraid to show bias, and that is very likely to have affected how Gryffindors in particular saw his house.”   
  
“Gabriel told me he didn’t think the house system helped,” Harry said. “Splitting the kids up for everything. I reckon he’s right, to be honest … why can’t they eat dinner together? I mean, no offence,” he added, “but we don’t do a lot to encourage them to mix, do we?”   
  
“No, and I shan’t take offence, as it has always been like that,” McGonagall said, smiling slightly. “Hogwarts is very strongly rooted in tradition -”   
  
“Is that good, though?” Harry wondered aloud. “Look what’s happened with things the way they are. Would it hurt to make a few changes?”   
  
“A few changes, indeed!”    
  
Harry glanced up at the owner of the piercing voice who had spoken scornfully. “Hello, Phineas,” he said politely, knowing the use of his first name would only irritate Sirius’s great-great-great grandfather further. Predictably, Phineas narrowed his painted eyes.    
  
“It is far more than a few changes you speak of,” he told Harry, bristling in his frame. “You are talking of disregarding the entire foundation on which our great founders built this institution -”   
  
“No, I’m talking about letting the students sit where they want at mealtimes,” Harry replied evenly.    
  
“The houses are an indispensable aspect of the school -”   
  
“Well, I disagree,” said Harry. Phineas Nigellus glowered at him.    
  
“You are regrettably similar to my great-great-great-grandson,” he said snidely. “Although I believe even  _ he  _ had an amount of pride for his house, even if it was not the noble and most ancient house of Black.”   
  
“Yeah, I wonder why that was?” Harry said sarcastically.   
  
“Your insolence only reveals your ignorance, and I -”

“Oh, hush, Phineas,” another portrait cut in exasperatedly. Digging through his memory, Harry recalled that it was Dilys Derwent, the witch who had been a Healer before becoming Headmistress. “I think the young man makes a good argument. How can progress ever be made if there is no change?”

Several of the other portraits called out 'hear, hear!’. Phineas scowled deeply, and looked about to argue, but McGonagall spoke first, in the sort of tone that brooked no argument. 

“I will discuss your suggestion with the heads of house,” she said to Harry. “At the moment I feel the more pressing situation is finding the writer of the message in the dungeons. Mr Flitcroft has revealed himself as a likely culprit -”

“I don't think it was him,” Harry said straight away. Truth be told, he hadn't even considered that possibility, but something - perhaps nothing more than pure instinct - told him that Edward hadn't done it. 

McGonagall raised an eyebrow, but accepted this without any question. “Then we must continue to look out for anything that points us to whoever did.”

Harry nodded. He couldn't help feeling, however, that McGonagall wasn't taking the issue of house unity - or lack thereof - seriously enough. He himself felt extremely disconcerted by the realisation that he had unconsciously been prejudiced against people he'd never even spoken to, and there was a niggling worry in the back of his head that wondered if he might have actually treated his Slytherin students differently without even realising it.

“Professor,” he said tentatively. “Would it be all right if I spoke to the students tomorrow? All of them?”

She did not answer immediately, making him nervous as she appraised him. “About this matter?”

“Yes. You know … house unity, not being prejudiced -”

“Very well,” she said. “You may speak to them immediately after breakfast.”

Harry, who had been expecting to have to argue his proposition, was momentarily silenced. “Oh - er. Thanks.” 

McGonagall had put her spectacles on, usually a signal that the conversation was over, and was reaching for a thick stack of parchment bound with the violet ribbon of the Ministry of Magic. Harry got up to leave, but stopped before he reached the door, struck with an idea.

“Was there something else?” McGonagall asked, picking up her quill. “I'm afraid I’m meeting the governors at three, although heaven knows I would rather not.”

“I, er, don't have any more classes today,” Harry said. “I was wondering if I might be excused early. Not to go home,” he hastened to add. “For … something else.”

“I suppose so,” said McGonagall, after a lengthy pause in which Harry's palms began to sweat. “As long as it's nothing illegal.”

“I wouldn't … yeah, OK,” Harry agreed, and he swore McGonagall looked on the brink of actual laughter as he made a hasty exit.

\---

**Monday  
** **3.00 PM**

The little house was as pristine as ever, the hallway as neat as a new pin, which made Harry painfully aware of the state his own house was in. Neither he or Ginny had ever bothered much with housekeeping spells. He considered his scuffed and slightly muddied brogues before taking them off and placing them neatly by the door. 

Andromeda raised her eyebrows at his mismatching socks, but didn't say anything except to offer him a cup of tea and invite him into the lounge.

“Yes, please,” said Harry, following her. “I'm sorry to just drop in -”

“You're always very welcome,” Andromeda replied. She sounded unexpectedly genuine. “Besides, there's someone here who will be very glad to see you.”

She opened the door of the lounge, revealing a small figure curled up on the sofa bundled up in thick blankets and nose buried in a book, although he cast it aside and sat up straight when he saw Harry.

“All right, Teddy?” Harry peered bemusedly at his godson. “Why aren't you at school?”

“God a code,” Teddy pronounced thickly. He did look peaky; his hair was its natural light brown, too, a dead giveaway that he was under the weather. “I wanted do go bud Granny said I couldn'd.”

“I didn't think your friends would appreciate being sneezed on,” Andromeda said crisply, returning with a tea tray levitating by her side. She directed it to the coffee table and addressed Harry. “Have a seat. You don't take sugar, do you?”

“Sid wid me!” Teddy begged, moving his legs out of the way to make space for Harry, who smiled at Andromeda's admonishing _ he can sit where he likes, Teddy _ and dropped onto the sofa. Teddy immediately snuggled into his side. Harry was happy to take a bit of snot in the name of this sort of show of affection: he was aware that Teddy, now seven, was growing up fast and it would only be a few short years before he would blanch at the thought of being seen cuddling with his godfather.

A teacup drifted over to Harry and floated beside him, steaming gently. He ran his fingers softly through Teddy's hair, wondering how to begin.

“I … wanted your perspective on something,” he said finally, meeting Andromeda's shrewd gaze. “Something I've been - struggling with.”

She inclined her head slightly to indicate that he should continue. Harry cleared his throat.

“You were in Slytherin …”

“Yes,” Andromeda said. “I'm aware of that. If you're just going to state facts about me, I'm afraid I may need a stronger drink.”

She threw him a look that reminded him simultaneously of McGonagall and - strikingly - Sirius; there was a glimmer of mischief in her grey eyes that was achingly familiar. 

“No,” said Harry, flustered, “I mean - you were a Slytherin, but you're - well, you're not -”

“I presume,” Andromeda interrupted, “that you - a Gryffindor possessed of the typical biases - want to know how it is that I was sorted into Slytherin yet chose not to vilify Muggles and follow in my sisters’ path.”

Harry squirmed uncomfortably. “Er … pretty much.”

“Has it never occurred to you that the Slytherins of that ilk might in fact be the minority, and that the majority might be similar to myself?” Andromeda asked, her tone now rather cool. “How many Slytherins have you actually had prolonged interaction with?”

“Well, there was Snape … and Slughorn. And the ones in my year - Draco Malfoy -”

“My nephew? Yes, well, if he turned out anything like his father, I imagine he was an obnoxious little twerp …”

“He was,” said Harry, grinning. “But I - you’re right, I realised I was basing my assumptions on them, and I never thought about … others.”   
  
“I see,” said Andromeda. “Like myself, you mean.”   
  
She sipped her tea, expression pensive. Teddy had fallen asleep against Harry’s shoulder.   
  
“I have always found the Sorting intriguing,” she said eventually. “It is a great deal of pressure for a child if their family has traditionally been in one house. Personally I believe it has little to do with one’s characteristics, or even one’s values. My sisters were resourceful and ambitious, yes, but were they not also brave in their way? Slytherin prized intelligence, but so did Ravenclaw - what is the difference between them? How does one Sort the child who is clever but does not care to learn? I don’t believe people are so easily sorted, myself, and especially not at that age … who we are, I am sure, is shaped by what we see and endure.”   
  
Her eyes flickered, perhaps involuntarily, to the photographs on the mantelpiece: Ted, laughing jovially; Tonks, from a gap-toothed child with lurid green pigtails to a young woman in Auror robes, hair now short and spiky; and a very young Andromeda in a wedding dress, happier than Harry had ever seen her, hanging onto Ted’s arm and smiling at something he was saying. It occurred to Harry how much grief had aged her.    
  
“I thought I belonged in Slytherin, not just because I was a Black, but because I did look out for myself, I was resourceful and pragmatic and cautious. But it made me lonely. Bellatrix was very vocal about wizards regaining power over Muggles - I wasn’t concerned with it, but people feared her and that meant they avoided me. Bellatrix was not a typical Slytherin,” Andromeda added emphatically. “I am not sure there is any such thing, but she was certainly … extreme. Narcissa was different. She cared for those who were kind to her and fought those who weren’t and no one else was of any interest to her. So you see - just within myself and my sisters - there were very different traits and values. What we had in common was, I believe, a result of our shared upbringing.”   
  
“What - what did the Hat say to you?” Harry asked, curiosity getting the better of him. “When you were Sorted?”   
  
“I don’t remember exactly. I think it said I was clever and had high expectations of myself. Which I did,” Andromeda said, “but I think now that these are not the traits I would like to be defined by. And … to me, it came to matter more how my loved ones saw me, not some old hat.”   
  
Harry thought about this.  _ Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness _ , the Sorting Hat had said to him. But what was greatness? To Harry, it was being a good father, husband and friend … making others happy, making them feel safe. He would feel far more pride from someone telling him he was a good dad than someone telling him he was brave, as many had. Andromeda was right: he didn’t want to be defined as courageous or daring.    
  
“Do you think they should Sort? The students, I mean?”   
  
“No,” said Andromeda simply. “I think it is divisive at best and dangerous at worst. You know that Slytherin very rarely takes Muggleborns? I have often wondered about that. Salazar Slytherin himself wouldn’t have, but why should the Hat observe that same prejudice? Surely it can’t be the case that very few children of Muggles are cunning or ambitious. And maintaining a house that accepts so few Muggleborns is inevitably going to perpetuate that prejudice.” She sighed, deeply. “Ted and I were very happy together,” she told Harry, with a small, sad smile. “In spite of and  _ because  _ of our differences. I have long wished that we had known each other earlier. Our entire relationship - our lives - hung on him approaching me in the library one day and offering me a Sugar Quill because I looked ‘down in the dumps’.”    
  
“He wasn’t biased against Slytherins, then.”   
  
“Ted wasn’t biased against anybody.” Her smile grew fonder. “Only what an individual does and says, he always said, should form your opinion of them. Until you know that then you shouldn’t have one.” 

\---  
  
**Tuesday** **  
** **9.01 AM**   
  
“Someone once told me that the world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters,” Harry said. His voice quavered slightly; he wished he could take his glasses off, so the faces staring up at him would be nothing more than blurs. “I’d take that one step further by saying that the world shouldn’t be split at all.   
  
“Slytherins aren’t bad. Slytherins aren’t Death Eaters. You can’t make a statement like that unless you personally know every single person who has ever been in Slytherin, know their beliefs and their actions and their motives. I’m willing to bet that the person who wrote that message in the dungeons doesn’t know that the wizard who brought Lord Voldemort back to life was a Gryffindor. Or that the witch who saved my life and allowed me to defeat him was a Slytherin. Someone’s house doesn’t define them, but to realise that you need to spend time with each other. All of the four houses are represented amongst the staff -” he gestured at the teachers sitting on either side of him, listening intently - “but if I didn’t know what those houses were, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. Because all people have different personalities and values and you know what? We need that. If everyone was the same, things - things just wouldn’t work.”   
  
He swallowed: his throat was growing sore from talking for so long.   
  
“With that in mind, I’ve asked Professor McGonagall for permission to ask you all for your ideas on how we can break down the boundaries that exist between you and bring you together. There’s going to be a box in the Entrance Hall where you can put your suggestions - weekly activities, events - and she’s also agreed to let me start a Quidditch club on Saturday afternoons, where there will be people from all houses on the teams, which will play friendly games.”   
  
_ That  _ idea had been rather a stroke of genius on Ginny’s part, he thought, and was pleased to notice a ripple of interest across the Hall.   
  
“I’ll finish,” he said, “with something I heard just yesterday. Only what an individual does and says should form your opinion of them. Until you know that, you shouldn’t have one.”    
  
There was silence in the Hall. Harry, now that he wasn’t talking, wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to do. He settled for giving a brief, awkward nod to McGonagall and sitting abruptly back down. 

  
Neville nudged him. “That was great,” he whispered. “I reckon you’ll really get them thinking.”   
  
“Really?” Harry felt an enormous rush of relief; he was trembling even more now that it was over. He was dimly aware of McGonagall addressing the students again, but his ears were ringing too much to hear what she was saying. “Hey,” he said, suddenly remembering. “How did it go with Hannah on Sunday?”   
  
Neville turned as vividly pink as the Giggling Gerberas in the school flowerbeds.    
  
“I think inter-house unity is a good idea,” he said, and that was all Harry could get out of him before the students were sent off to their lessons.    
  
\---  
  
**Tuesday** **  
** **9.10 AM** **  
** **  
** “Hey - can I talk to you?”   
  
The corridor was packed with people going off to different classrooms, most of them talking at the top of their voices about Professor Potter’s speech, and Gabe had to push his way through to catch up with Naomi, walking a little way ahead of him with her friends. They all stared at him as he addressed her.    
  
“I don’t want to be late for History of Magic,” Naomi said reluctantly.    
  
“I’ll talk on the way, then,” Gabe countered. The girls surrounding him clutched at each other and made silly  _ oooooh!  _ noises, making both him and Naomi blush. She still looked very reluctant, but nodded.    
  
“Save me a seat,” she requested of her friends, who went on ahead, still giggling. Once they’d gone, she turned a surprisingly fierce glare on Gabe. “What, then?”   
  
“Why don’t you want to be seen with us?” Gabe demanded. “And why’d you have a mard the other day about other people being in our group?”   
  
Naomi flushed a deeper red. “You saw just now. My friends will make fun of me for hanging around with boys, they’ll think we’re going out!” She said the last two words in a hushed voice, as if scandalised by the very idea.    
  
“What about Maddie?”    
  
She didn’t answer, so Gabe knew he’d got her there. “C’mon, what is it? Cos you were really rude to Maddie the other day, you know. And she’s really nice.”   
  
Naomi stopped walking, causing Gabe to almost trip over her. “I  _ don’t  _ want people knowing that I need to do extra studying,” she hissed under her breath. “All right? None of my sisters did, and if they find out - or my mum finds out, or anyone - they’re going to think I’m stupid.”   
  
“How d’you know your sisters didn’t do extra studying?”   
  
“Because they didn’t. And they’ve all got top marks so far, Charlotte’s only in fourth year but she’s predicted loads of Outstandings -”   
  
“Yeah,” said Gabe slowly, thinking maybe she was actually stupid, “but  _ you  _ haven’t told them  _ you’re  _ doing it, so what makes you think they’d have told you?”   
  
Naomi looked blank for a moment. “They didn’t,” she repeated, but she sounded less certain. “They’re clever. They don’t need to. They just know stuff.”   
  
“No one just knows stuff,” said Gabe. “And you’re clever, it’s just that you want to get really high marks, and you have to work harder to do that unless you’re like a weird genius or something.” He saw her hesitating, and went on: “Come back to the library at least, OK? Y’know, you’re … funny. And you’re good at helping me. I don’t fancy you!” he added hurriedly. “I mean - I don’t fancy  _ anyone _ -”   
  
“OK.”   
  
“Really?”   
  
“Yes,” said Naomi, a hint of a smile on her face, and she started walking again. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”   
  
They were slightly late, but Professor Moreno was later, so they joined the line outside the classroom just before she arrived.    
  
“Carrying on with our work on important inventions, we’re going to be starting a research project,” she announced once they were all seated. “You’re going to pair up and I’m going to give each pair the name of a wizarding invention - and it’s your job to produce a piece of work on it to present to the class.” At the words  _ pair up _ , people had immediately started turning to their friends, whispering, but Professor Moreno wasn’t finished.    
  
“In light of Professor Potter’s talk this morning, I’m going to ask that you choose a partner from a different house,” she said, smiling at the reaction this caused. “I expect you to work together fairly and contribute equally to the task. I’ll give you two minutes to pair up, and then you’ll be given your invention.”   
  
Gabe glanced around for Maddie: she was already on her feet, plaits swinging, but before he could catch her eye he saw her making a beeline for Naomi. The other Gryffindor girls were looking lost, he noticed, still huddled together, probably hoping that Professor Moreno wouldn’t notice they were in the same house.    
  
Maddie said something to Naomi, smiling eagerly, and after a slight hesitation, Naomi smiled back.    
  
Gabe felt instantly cheered by this, although his spirits fell seconds later when he realised he didn’t have a partner. He looked to his right, at the quiet Ravenclaw boy sitting next to him, eyeing the Gryffindor boys with unease. Gabe tapped the boy - whose name he thought was Ravi Patel - on the shoulder.    
  
“Should we - y’know -”   
  
“Yes, all right,” said Ravi, looking mildly pleased, just as Professor Moreno’s voice rang out across the classroom.    
  
“Miss Hopkins and Miss Blakely, this is still a lesson, not an excuse to mess around!”   
  
\---   
  
**Tuesday** **  
** **10.00 AM** **  
** **  
** Harry was already exhausted by the second period; talking to the whole school had been inexplicably draining, and he’d just had the fourth years, who were full of beans and suggestions for inter-house activities, half of them ridiculous (“synchronised swimming in the lake!”). As a result, he wasn’t best pleased to receive his seventh years arguing loudly with each other and paying no heed whatsoever to the rather cross-faced teacher at the front of the classroom.    
  
“QUIET!” he shouted eventually, when his gentle coughs and pleasant ‘OK, then …’s yielded no results. “What on earth’s going on?”   
  
This was clearly the wrong thing to say, as they all immediately burst into angry torrents again.    
  
“ _ \- so  _ narrow-minded -”   
  
“- you’re just bloody naive, that’s the problem -”   
  
“- didn’t listen at all!”   
  
Frustrated, Harry pulled out his wand and pointed it in the air, setting off a very loud and horrible wailing sound like a car alarm. The talking stopped: some of them covered their ears. Harry pointed at Nesta Gwynne, one of the few who hadn’t been arguing, a Hufflepuff girl who was usually a reliable source of information. “Nesta. Tell me what’s happened.”   
  
“We just had Transfiguration, and Professor Thompson was saying how she hoped we would all listen to what  _ you  _ said after breakfast, and that we’d realise we’re human and we should treat each other equally -”   
  
“Right,” said Harry, puzzled. “So why -?”   
  
“Well, then - er, someone said that was stupid, ‘cos some people don’t deserve to be treated equally if they’ve done bad things, and someone  _ else  _ said like who, and they said Slytherins because it wasn’t a coincidence that most Death Eaters were Slytherins and they were capable of doing things the rest of us weren’t …” Nesta trailed off at the look on Harry’s face. He exhaled, determined to keep his cool this time.   
  
“Do you mean to say,” he said, “that after what I said this morning, there are still people who are happy to judge their classmates on something they have never done? On a baseless assumption?”   
  
“It isn’t baseless,” Caspian Flume said angrily. “It  _ isn’t  _ a coincidence that the Death Eaters were in Slytherin, it can’t be. The Hat picks people it knows are capable of doing evil, that’s who Slytherin would have wanted in his house.”   
  
“And I told you that not all the Death Eaters were in Slytherin,” said Harry sharply. “That’s a very dangerous idea to have.”   
  
“No, what’s dangerous is still letting them be here!” Caspian retorted. “I’ve read up on it, I know what they’ve done - You-Know-Who was in Slytherin and he killed a girl while he was here - kids were tortured while the Death Eaters were in charge here, and the headmaster was the head of Slytherin! And they didn’t stay to fight, and people  _ died!  _ My uncle died! He was a Gryffindor, he fought, not like all those cowards who saved their own -”   
  
“That’s ENOUGH!”   
  
Harry slammed his hand on the desk. Several of the students were white-faced. “Right,” he said in his normal voice, though his heart was thumping hard in his chest. “Practical lesson today. Seeing if you can detect enchanted objects. I’ve bewitched a number of things in the classroom. They’re not Dark curses, so you can touch them, but I want you to see if you can identify which things are enchanted, using what we’ve learned about this.” He paused, exhaling. “I’m going to leave you to get on with that for a bit, OK?” He looked at Caspian. “A word, please,” he said. “Outside.”   
  
Caspian looked deeply disgruntled, but Harry noticed that his posture was rigid as he shoved back his chair and followed Harry out into the corridor. Harry closed the door.   
  
“I won’t beat around the bush,” he said quietly. “I know it was you.”   
  
“What was me?” said Caspian. He glowered at Harry, who was struck by the lack of difference in their heights as they stood face to face. Caspian, it occurred to him, just like all the seventh years, was likely no younger than Harry was when he had faced Voldemort for the final time.    
  
“The message outside the Slytherin common room.”    
  
Caspian blanched. “You haven’t got any proof,” he said at once.   
  
“Do I need it?” said Harry. “You certainly had motive, as captain of the losing team on Saturday. Not to mention the fact that only someone who felt very strongly about it would do something like that. And you’ve just demonstrated that you do.”   
  
He sensed that Caspian was struggling with his emotions; he could almost see it on his face, could see him wrestling with the desire to protect himself and the urge to admit to it. “It’s not fair!” he burst out, fists clenching at his sides. “It  _ ruined  _ my family - I remember - when they told my dad, and he started yelling - and then he started drinking, Mum thought I didn’t notice but I did -”   
  
Harry felt a jolt of sympathy, but knew he had to drive the point home. “The war ruined lots of families,” he said evenly. “Do you think none of the staff suffered loss? Because we did … but we know that the people who caused it aren’t amongst the students. None of them had anything to do with it. The only people responsible are the individuals who cast the curses.” Caspian was looking down at his feet, not at Harry, who pressed on regardless. “Slytherins  as a whole are just children who were put in a group. It doesn’t tell you anything else about them, and it certainly doesn’t make them murderers, Caspian.”   
  
Caspian mumbled something indistinct.    
  
“You know I’ll have to take this to Professor McGonagall,” Harry said. At that, Caspian’s head shot up.    
  
“No! I - will I be expelled?”   
  
“That’s up to her,” said Harry, chest constricting at the distress on his student’s face. “You had to have known there’d be consequences if you were caught.”   
  
“Didn’t think I would be,” Caspian muttered, rubbing his eyes roughly with one hand.    
  
“Didn’t remember there was a former Auror on the staff, you mean,” said Harry. Caspian didn’t smile.    
  
“Do you - do you think I should be expelled?” he asked Harry painstakingly. Harry drew in a breath.    
  
“That depends,” he said. “Do you still think you were right?”   
\---  
  
**Tuesday** **  
** **4.30 PM** **  
** **  
** “Professor Potter believes you were motivated by anger and frustration, rather than hatred,” said McGonagall, looking at Caspian sternly through her square spectacles. “As such, all things considered …”   
  
Caspian looked terrified.    
  
“... you will not be expelled,” McGonagall concluded, nodding at Bernice, who had been equally furious and upset upon learning that it had been one of her students. “You will, however, lose your captaincy of the Gryffindor team.”   
  
“What? No! Professor, you can’t -!”   
  
“You should be grateful it isn’t worse!” Bernice told him sharply. “Callisto Jones will take your place. We’ll review your behaviour over the coming months, and if we feel you’ve sufficiently contributed to the community of the school, it’s possible that you might be captain again.”   
  
“We will also arrange for you to attend a weekly session with a counsellor,” said McGonagall. “Although your actions were wrong, the impact your childhood has had on you is not your fault, and it is right that help should be offered. Professor Devereaux knows of a service that comes very highly recommended, and you will be able to speak in complete confidence to a trained professional who understands this sort of thing.”   
  
Defeated, Caspian nodded.    
  
“You may go now,” said McGonagall. “Professor Bloom will speak to you later in the week.”    
  
Bernice let out a long sigh as the door closed after him.    
  
“I hate being head of Gryffindor sometimes.”   
  
“I can empathise,” McGonagall said drily.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'having a mard'/'mardy' is Midlands/Northern English dialect for being sulky or grumpy, throwing a small tantrum, etc.   
> Next chapter is going to be heavy on the Ginny to make up for her absence in this chapter!


	13. Over the Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not like the first half of this chapter. Just saying.  
> You will find some changes to canon when it comes to the Weasleys, or more precisely their children - this is because I changed any names I wanted to change. Hurrah for AUs! I'm going to publish a 'backstory' headcanon type of thing for the Weasleys post-war on my tumblr that sets all that out.  
> Hope you enjoy :)

It would have been nice if house relations immediately improved following Professor Potter’s speech to the whole school, but things don’t really work like that. That isn’t to say that change wouldn’t come - by the time Harry’s sons were at Hogwarts, it would be quite a different school to the one he'd known - but that is then, and this was now, and the shifts in the foundations of division that had long been harboured in the castle came slowly, although not imperceptibly.

Harry was aware that he was gaining something of a reputation - that it wasn't really _done_ for a new staff member to change things up like he was, and he wasn't deaf to the mutterings of favouritism and special treatment that stopped as soon as he entered the staffroom. This didn't bother him as much as it could have done; for one thing, he had no doubts that McGonagall wouldn't have agreed to anything that wasn't in the best interests of the school, and for another, it was only a few of the teachers that seemed disgruntled. Cadmus Heyes was one of them, of course (Ginny had roundly declared him a prat, and was happy to abuse him thoroughly whenever Harry complained about something he'd done, which made him feel a lot better); Madam Pince had also cast a few dark looks in his direction, but as Harry was fairly sure she'd been in the library when Gryffindor and co. founded the place, this didn't concern him excessively. He had staunch supporters in Neville and Hagrid, and Bernice had come round for tea in the week and praised his efforts heartily, confessing that the behaviour of the Slytherins she'd been at school with - the ones who had gone on to become Death Eaters - had always clouded her view of the house.

Professor McGonagall and her deputy, Cordelia Devereaux, had been in agreement that any new practices should be introduced gradually, and decided that the first should be to adjust the seating at mealtimes. On Sunday notices were posted in the common rooms announcing that from the next day tables would no longer be arranged by house, but by year group. Gabe was thrilled about this, but he seemed to be one of the few that was. There were a lot of sceptical grumblings on Monday morning, when the four long tables were replaced by seven shorter ones, with teachers directing the students to the right one. While Gabe happily went to sit with Oliver and Maddie, the other Gryffindors in his year in particular were reluctant to separate and clustered together as usual, shooting the other first years suspicious looks.   
  
“Anyone would think we smelled,” said Maddie cheerfully, thickly spreading jam on her toast.   
  
“Doesn’t look like it’ll work, does it?” Oliver commented. He sounded disappointed. Gabe wanted to tell him that he wasn’t missing much, in his opinion, aside from Naomi (who outside of the library had progressed to smiling at them in public), but Oliver had made friends with the school cat, so he didn’t think there was any point. Besides, Gabe thought he was right: nobody seemed very keen on reaching out to anyone outside of their house.   
  
But Oliver wasn’t right, as it turned out. (Characteristically, this only made him happy.) By the end of the week the removal of a physical distance between them all had started to prove effective. It was small things - complaining about a shared class at lunchtime, joining in on a discussion about Quidditch, asking someone about homework - but Gabe watched with surprise as the barriers slowly began to fall. It was one of the Gryffindor girls asking Rebecca Wildsmith, the cleverest in the year, about the Transfiguration essay they’d been set; it was Felix Moon from Slytherin engaging Gabe and Maddie in a conversation about Muggle sports. It was small, but it was there.   
  
As he explained the rules of football to Felix with Maddie chipping in every now and then (“handball is when your hand touches the ball, what genius thought of that?”), he happened to glance up at the staff table and caught Professor Potter’s eye. Wearing a look of quiet triumph, he winked at Gabe, who felt strangely warm at the thought that he had in some way contributed to something … good.   
  
Also new was the idea - from a sixth year - to use the Great Hall as a common area after breakfast at the weekends. The tables were cleared, and replaced with lots of squashy cushions and beanbags so people could sit in little groups and do homework, play cards or chess, or just chat. It worked surprisingly well, and it was quite nice to sit in the hall - which was by far one of the grandest rooms Gabe had ever seen - underneath the enchanted ceiling, occasionally catching snatches of conversation from nearby groups, which was fascinating (“I accidentally replaced my fingers with carrots last week,” he heard one older students saying mournfully to their friend.

“What were you trying to do?”

“Turn the carrots into knives. I'm definitely going to fail Transfiguration.”).

To his own astonishment more than anyone else’s, Gabe had already finished all his homework, and so he was lying on his stomach and flipping through a book called _50 Practical Potions for the Busy Witch or Wizard._ There were things like Pepper-Up Potion for colds, and a Hiccuping Solution, but there was also a section called ‘Social’ which included potions such as Tone-Deaf Tonic and No-Rhythm Remedy, supposedly to help impress at parties. He occasionally read some of the more interesting ones aloud to Maddie, who was meant to be working through a page of fractions but as far as Gabe could tell was actually just doodling elaborately in her book in between bites of Mars Bar. (There was apparently a boy in the year above who did a roaring trade in Muggle sweets and chocolate, which he was sent from home.)   
  
He was engrossed in the method for Snoring Solution, wondering if he would be able to get hold of some to take home for Christmas (Ruby snored like a middle-aged man rather than a nine year old girl; peppermint was listed amongst the ingredients, which he’d probably be able to get in Tesco’s, but so were moondew, Chinese Evergreens and Abyssinian shrivelfigs, and he’d never seen them on the shelves) when a bunch of the Gryffindor girls from his class came in, Naomi amongst them. At the sight of her Maddie perked up at once, tossing her maths book aside and waving so exuberantly she nearly conked Gabe on the head.   
  
“Naomi! Hellooo! Over here!”   
  
Part of Gabe thought he should be embarrassed by this, but then he saw some of the girls openly sniggering and whispering to each other and any embarrassment was swiftly replaced by indignation. Naomi appeared to be battling with herself, but after a moment she straightened her shoulders and came over to them. The group of girls followed, clearly hoping for something else to make fun of.   
  
“Hi,” Naomi said. Gabe nodded at her. Maddie - who was determinedly not looking at the other girls - beamed.   
  
“Come and sit down! We’ve got that history project, remember? And I’ve got chocolate!”   
  
Gabe sat back and watched, genuinely curious as to how this would go down. Girls, and girls’ friendships in particular, were very strange. They could fall out over the slightest thing and act like it was the end of the world, yet be best friends again the next week. Gabe’s friends had mainly resolved their issues by kicking each other.   
  
He swivelled his gaze from Maddie’s eager face to Naomi’s hesitant one. He could tell that Naomi was torn between doing what she thought she ought to and looking cool, and sitting with Maddie, who had obviously been the subject of quite a few mean jokes.   
  
Impatient, Sophie Wells - the most confident of the bunch - said, “I thought we were sitting together?”   
  
It was phrased as a question, but her tone and the intensity of her blue-eyed stare told a different story. It was an imperative, and Naomi knew it. The panic in her expression increased.   
  
Maddie was silent. Naomi picked at her bottom lip, eyes darting between her two choices.   
  
“I need to do some of this history homework,” she said to the girls. There was an almost perceptible ripple of shock amongst the group: Zahra Novak exchanged a wide-eyed look with Á ine Ennis. “But I’ll come and sit with you later?”   
  
Gabe heard the note of anxiety in her voice, almost pleading - she knew she was taking a risk, and that they could easily shut her out because of it. He frowned down at his book. They weren’t very good friends if they did that, if you asked him, but nobody had, so he kept his mouth shut.   
  
“Oh,” Sophie said. “OK, then.” She offered Naomi a bright smile. That was the other thing some girls did, where being nice actually meant they were going to be mean. Probably they’d go off to their own corner and talk about Naomi behind her back, or write something nasty in the toilets - Gabe had heard they did that. Boys just mostly drew rude things. He’d been quite comforted to discover that even at Hogwarts the toilet cubicles had those sorts of drawings on the walls.   
  
“I’ll see you in a bit,” Naomi promised, once again sounding more like it was a plea. Sophie just smiled her not-very-nice smile again, waggled her fingers and led the others off to the other side of the hall.   
  
Naomi stared after them worriedly until Maddie poked her in the knee and pointedly told her to sit down as she was blocking her view of Professor Sweeting. This shocked Naomi so much that she did as she was told.   
  
“He’s a teacher!”   
  
“That doesn’t mean he can’t look nice. Want a Twix?”   
  
“What’s a Twix?” asked Naomi warily, taking one gingerly and eyeing the gold wrapper with suspicion.   
  
“‘S chocolate.”   
  
“What does it do?”   
  
“What d’you mean, what does it do?”   
  
“It’s not magic,” Gabe put in, remembering the Chocolate Frog he’d eaten, which had tried to jump out of his hands. “It doesn’t do anything.” Naomi looked unconvinced, but she opened it anyway and took a tentative bite. Then she sighed.   
  
“Yeah, they’re not the best,” said Maddie knowingly. “Hang on, I think I’ve got a Curly Wurly in my bag -”   
  
Naomi wasn’t listening. “Do you think they’re talking about me?” she asked Gabe. “Sophie and the others?”   
  
“Um …” _Yes_ was the honest answer, but possibly not the kindest. “Just ignore them,” he advised instead, parroting what his mum always said to Ruby when she’d fallen out with her friends.   
  
“I can’t,” said Naomi, face crumpling in distress, “I sleep in the same room as them! What if they’re horrible about me?”   
  
Gabe didn’t really know what to say to that. He looked at Maddie for help, but she was drawing in her book again and seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. She hadn’t, though, because a moment later she spoke, not looking up from her book. “It’s the group thing. I bet most of them are actually nice on their own. Wanting to be included does weird things to people.”   
  
“They are!” Naomi agreed at once. “Felicity is really nice, and so is Belinda. It’s just … Sophie is a bit bossy, and … it’s easier to do what she wants.”   
  
“You should do what _you_ want,” said Gabe, who had been much happier since he’d realised this. “I haven’t got any friends in my dorm and I’m fine.” A bit lonely, he reflected, but it was true - it didn’t bother him as much as when he’d had no friends at all.   
  
Naomi made a sort of ‘mmm’ noise, which meant she didn’t really agree but was too polite to say so. They didn’t argue the point any further, though, as Oliver arrived then. He had someone else in tow, which wasn’t unusual. Gabe sometimes wondered if he actually invited them anywhere or if people were just drawn into following him.   
  
This time it was a girl Gabe recognised from Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts, which they had with the Slytherins. She was pretty - very dark eyes and heavy eyebrows, quite a large curved nose, thick dark hair. They didn’t have to wear their uniforms at the weekend, but she had on purple robes with flowers embroidered on the sleeves and hem and wore a matching pointed hat.   
  
Oliver introduced her as Safia Shafiq, his partner for the History of Magic project that his class were also doing. Gabe had spent a bit of time in the library with his partner, Ravi, and they’d come up with some quite interesting stuff. Ravi had promised to do most of the writing, though, as Gabe wasn’t a very good speller.   
  
“We’re looking at the Sneakoscope,” Safia said. Her accent wasn’t completely English; she sounded a bit like the nice couple from the corner shop at the end of Gabe’s road, who his mum said were from Pakistan, which was why other people called them names and mimicked their accents. She’d told Gabe that he’d have no pocket money for a year if she ever caught him doing it, but he didn’t want to anyway. Safia’s accent wasn’t as strong, although Gabe wondered if anyone here made the same sort of comments.

“It’s a Dark detector,” Oliver explained, opening the book under his arm and flicking through to a page which he held up to show the other three. It had an illustration of an instrument that looked sort of like a miniature globe and was somewhat familiar to Gabe.   
  
“I think Professor Potter’s got one of those in his office,” he said vaguely. “What does it do?”

He only half-listened to the answer; he was more absorbed in considering their little group. Safia comfortably settled herself between Oliver and Naomi, and although it was entirely possible that she’d never talk to them again after the history project was handed in, Gabe had a distinct sense that she too would become a regular fixture. Once Oliver brought you in, he thought, you were in.   
  
Later, at lunch, Oliver told him that Safia was apparently from one of the oldest pureblood families, which meant that no non-magical people had married in. “Some of them can be really iffy about people with Muggle blood - like you and me and Maddie - but she said her family normally stays out of it,” he said. “They’re not Dark, but they’re not considered blood traitors either.”   
  
“What the heck’s a blood traitor?” Gabe asked. He was losing track of all the terms wizards had. “It’s a bit weird how obsessed with blood everyone here is, you know.”   
  
Oliver grinned. “Yeah, I know. A blood traitor is a pureblood who doesn’t only mix with other purebloods, like they think half-bloods and Muggleborns and Muggles are equal.”   
  
“So … a normal person, then.”   
  
“Well, _we_ think that, but quite a lot of purebloods don’t, apparently. My mum and dad warned me about it before I came here, they were a bit worried about how much trouble there’d be, you know, after the war. Did you know the Ministry actually rounded Muggleborns up and took away their wands? They said they were stealing magic.” Oliver looked a bit sick at that. Gabe didn’t blame him. He glanced over at Naomi, who was sitting with the Gryffindor girls again. She laughed when they laughed, but didn’t seem to be talking much.   
  
“Is Naomi pureblood?”   
  
“I think so. Probably not all the way back, though, so it wouldn’t count for a lot of people. There are only a few families who are meant to be completely pure-blooded. It’ll be in a book somewhere.”   
  
Gabe made a mental note to ask Professor Moreno about this, or perhaps Professor Potter, as he turned back to his lunch. There was so much to learn that wasn’t in his lessons: the more he found out about being a wizard, it seemed, the more complicated it got.   
  
\---   
  
The students who turned up for the first Quidditch club on Saturday afternoon looked rather thrown when they arrived at the pitch to find not one but four Potters waiting for them, all with a broom in hand except for Al, who was happily ensconced in a sling around Harry’s neck and drooling.   
  
It hadn’t taken much persuading on Harry’s part to get Ginny involved with the club; she missed Quidditch when she wasn’t playing and she had been a very good captain in her seventh year, with a confident but encouraging manner that sought to get the best out of her team. She stood before the students now with pink cheeks and sparkling eyes, grinning when several of them nudged each other and eyed her with evident interest. Harry straightened up and tried to look intimidating - he didn’t feel great about his students fancying his wife - a feat that he thought was hindered slightly by the baby strapped to his chest.   
  
Beside Ginny stood a tiny tyrant in a navy duffle coat and wellington boots, clutching his toy broomstick like it was a sword and glowering at the assembled pupils.   
  
“You not here to have fun,” he said savagely to a giggling fifth year.   
  
“Yes, you are!” Harry called hastily from a few paces behind his wife and son. “James, let Mummy do the talking, OK?”   
  
Once Ginny took over, things ran fairly smoothly: they managed to assemble two even teams and get a game going, although it was a lot more light-hearted and carefree than the inter-house matches. The students were all out of uniform, wearing purple and orange bibs, and as they'd been split into teams randomly, there were people from every house on each team. More importantly, they seemed to be getting on well. Harry was pleased to see a few members of staff come out to watch; even Neville wandered over from the greenhouses with a steaming mug cradled in his hands.

The purple team caught the snitch after eighty minutes, but rather than this creating a divide between the two teams, they all came back together to excitedly discuss the match; all of them, after all, had at least one friend on the other side.

“That was great!” Ginny said enthusiastically. “Really good, clean game - Nina, that Sloth Grip Roll was brilliant, well done -”

“Mrs Potter?” A hand went up. “Can you show  us some stuff?”

“What - fly?” Ginny blinked. They'd both brought their brooms automatically rather than purposefully, used to showing up to Quidditch practice. She hesitated, then threw a mischievous grin at Harry. “I will if Professor Potter will.”

“Race!” someone shouted, and a great cheer went up from the group. “Race! Race!”

“I can't fly with a baby strapped to me,” Harry pointed out.

“Neville!” Ginny beckoned him over. “I mean, Professor Longbottom,” she amended hastily, evoking laughter from the students. “Take Al, will you? Me and Harry are going to have a race.”

Neville looked highly amused as he took his godson; Ginny ushered James over to stand with him as well. “No fouling,” he said to Harry and Ginny. “We have to set an example to the kids.”

“I don't,” said Ginny brightly. “Come on, Potter! Five Galleons says I win!”

“We share a bank account!”

They both mounted their brooms and kicked off, rising into the air until they reached the goals at one end. Harry was conscious of the fact that he could well be beaten by his wife in front of a number of his students, but found he didn't care in the slightest, laughing at Ginny hamming it up for them on her broom and simply enjoying being in the air. He was fairly frugal with his money when it came to buying things for himself, but brooms were an exception: he kept an eagle eye on his subscription of _Which Broomstick?_ , perusing the rankings and reviews carefully, and had only last year splashed an inordinate amount of gold on the newest broomstick on the market, the Falcon V3; made by Adesso, an Italian manufacturer who had emerged onto the market after the war, it was easily the most streamlined and extraordinary broom Harry had ever flown (not to mention the most beautiful; the handle was made of holly, which was partly why he thought it handled so well for him, given that it shared this feature with his wand). Ginny had a Tempest 500, the new model launched by Randolph Spudmore of Firebolt fame. It was what all the Harpies flew, and - to put it mildly - it was a pretty decent broom.   
  
Hovering in mid-air, Harry grinned at her. She stuck her tongue out and then mouthed something he didn’t catch.   
  
“What was that?”  
  
“I said _I’m going to destroy you_.”  
  
“Love you too,” said Harry, as there came the sharp blast of a whistle from the ground for them to take their places. He bent low over his broom, feeling it vibrate beneath him, responding to the slightest twitch. Adrenaline pounded in his veins.   
  
A second, longer blast from the whistle, and Harry launched himself forwards, almost flat against the finely polished handle - he remembered thinking the Firebolt was fast, but this was something else - the pitch was a blur, he could see nothing but the pale blue sky he was streaking across, wind rushing through his ears so loud he could hear only that and the hammering of his heart in his chest - _Merlin_ , he missed flying every week; it was like being reunited with his oldest friend, he was at home in the air -  
  
He couldn’t see Ginny, not daring to look around lest he lose speed, but he knew she would be close. The other set of goalposts neared, the finish was in sight -   
  
He cannoned past the hoops and let out a whoop, punching the air with his fist.   
  
“Well done, Harry!” came Ginny’s voice from a foot or so above him, in a similar tone to one she would use with her nieces and nephews. It was only then that Harry looked around and realised that he hadn’t, in fact, crossed the finish line first. He had failed to notice the cheers and applause coming from the pitch.   
  
“Oh.” Ginny drifted down to his level and grinned wickedly at him; he was now sorely regretting the air punch. And the whoop. “Damn.”  
  
“How much did that broom cost you?”  
  
“All right - you won, no need to rub it in.”  
  
Ginny tilted her head to one side, considering this. “Err … no, I have _every_ need, actually. Pay up, Potter.”  
  
“Buy you a drink?” he tried. She mulled it over, then reached out to shake his hand with a firm grip. Harry took a moment to admire her, windswept and triumphant, in the mild November sunlight.  
  
Then he released her hand and said, “Next time we play for the Snitch.”  
  
“Excellent. It’ll be so much more satisfying when I beat you.”  
  
\---  
  
The news that Professor Potter had been soundly thrashed in a race by Holyhead Harpies star Ginny Potter was all his students could talk about on Monday morning, which Harry didn’t entirely mind, although it did make it harder to teach his third years about Hinkypunks when he was being peppered with questions about the race and whether it was true that he had a Falcon broomstick. He didn’t begrudge Ginny getting most of the attention and acclaim (she had after all won fair and square, and was the professional out of the two of them), but he couldn’t deny that he was quite chuffed when he overheard several fifth years talking excitedly about how Professor Potter was “a proper wicked flier”, and when Edward Flitcroft approached him in the afternoon to ask if he had really been the youngest Seeker for a hundred years.   
  
“Youngest - and the best,” said Neville, whom he had been talking to, with pride. Harry reddened.   
  
“That’s not -”  
  
“Mint.” Edward seemed to have forgotten their confrontation of a week or so prior, and was looking at Harry with distinct admiration. “Could you give me some pointers, d’you think?”  


\---  
  
Hundreds of miles away in Holyhead, shifting on the crushed velvet seat of her chair, Ginny was also thinking about the race on Saturday. She had felt unbelievably alive in those moments - more so, if she cared to admit it to herself, than she had done for months. Touching back down on the pitch, she’d been greeted with adulation and applause from the watching students, so insistent on autographs that Neville had jogged back to the castle and fetched her a quill. It was nothing on the scale of league matches, or the European Cup final against Vratsa where she’d scored the winning goal - the Harpies crowd had gone wild, hardly daring to believe that they had defeated the reigning champions, and Ginny had experienced euphoria beyond anything she’d ever known as she’d taken her turn lifting the cup and felt little Ginny Weasley, left to die in the Chamber, fade ever further into the distance. Nothing but a memory.  
  
With an effort, she tore herself from the fear clouding her mind and tried to focus on what her manager was saying.  
  
Victoria Cavendish-Brown was without a doubt the poshest person Ginny had ever met, but she’d been a cracking Beater for Tutshill back in the late eighties, and since she’d taken over as manager for the Harpies in 1999 the team had won the League twice and even bagged the European Cup in 2001. Ginny, her first signing as manager, was immeasurably fond of her, although she did have a tendency to go off on personal tangents.   
  
“... wouldn’t have _believed_ the mess, hors d'oeuvres everywhere, frightfully difficult to get out of one’s carpet, but I said to Minty, if she will insist on bringing that Crup of hers to parties what does she expect -”   
  
Ginny gave a gentle cough. She knew full well that one story only led to another, and she’d heard about Minty before. Her mum had agreed to watch James and Al, but she also had George’s two, so Ginny had promised she wouldn’t be too long.   
  
“Oh gosh, sorry, old thing,” Victoria said amiably. Everything sounded amiable in her plummy tones, which was possibly why she’d retired with an almost entirely clean record despite being a notorious offender of blagging. “What did I want to talk about ..? Oh yes, your return. If you are coming back, that is,” she added, flicking a piece of lint off her robes with a perfectly manicured finger.   
  
This was what Ginny had expected, but she still squirmed a bit. One part of her - quite a large part - wanted to say _of course, I’ll be back next week_ , but there was also a part that only had her children in mind. Did she really want to leave them? That was the problem, she thought morosely. She _didn’t_ want to leave them, but she desperately wanted to go back to the Harpies.   
  
“Only Alexandra Powell was asking about you,” said Victoria, which made Ginny’s head snap up.   
  
“Alexandra Powell - the England manager?”  
  
“Mmhm. _Lovely_ girl,” Victoria enthused. “She was a few years below me at school, you know. Jolly good Chaser. Anyhow, she’s scouting for her World Cup squad, and she _did_ ask if you would be playing at all this season. I think she’s rather keen, _entre-nous_.” She tapped the side of her nose confidentially. “ _However_ , selection is in May, as you know, and personally one would rather see you play as much as possible before then, darling.”  
  
“Of course,” said Ginny automatically. Her head was spinning. Alexandra Powell! England! And - oh, did she dare even dream of it? - _the World Cup_ … the chance being snatched from her hands by a positive pregnancy test had meant the thought had always lingered at the back of her mind.   
  
Victoria leaned forwards, hands splayed on the antique desk. “Now, I’ll have you back as soon as you like, Martha’s a lovely girl, but she doesn’t quite have your spark, does she? You’d need to put in a good amount of training first, but I don’t recall it being a problem last time, you were soon back on form … it all rather depends on you, darling, and whether you can bear to leave those charming children of yours. Oh, that reminds me, you had better warn your chap about Ivo, he’ll be coming up in September and he’s a frightful menace, doesn’t listen to a word Giles or I say. Tell him to give as many detentions as he wants but please _don’t_ owl us, frankly we would Rather Not Know.”  
  
She often spoke like that, as if many of her words were capitalised. Ginny usually found it annoying, but this time she hardly noticed. “Victoria,” she managed to say, swallowing hard against the lump that had formed in her throat. “Do you really - you think I could ..?”  
  
“Honestly, old girl, the World Cup is anyone’s guess.” Victoria pulled a ‘ _who knows?’_ face that still somehow looked elegant. “But as for coming back to us, depending on how you fared in practice, I would be looking at getting you back in the starting line-up as soon as January.”  
  
“January?!”  
  
“Now, it won’t be easy,” she warned, waggling a stern finger. “You’ll need all the hours God sends, I’m afraid. I’ll talk to Morven about putting in some extra training with you -” Morven was their rather intense Keeper and captain, a female Oliver Wood if ever there was one - “but that oughtn't be a problem. Merlin knows I don't want one of the other teams poaching you -”

Ginny interrupted, doubtful: “I don't think that's likely now I've got two kids.”

“Oh, pish-posh,” said Victoria cheerfully. “I went back to Tutshill for a season after I had Ivo, you know. Only retired because there were some complications when Artemis was born that made it jolly hard to sit on a broom, if you know what I mean.” Ginny did, and therefore could have done without the mime that followed. “But you seem in fine fettle to me, darling, so the Quaffle's in your quarter, as they say.”

Ginny hesitated before answering. There were butterflies fluttering in her stomach, making her feel queasy. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course, of course, but I shall need an answer soon. I'll need to update the team, you know, and Martha of course, Poor Girl.”

Ginny did feel sorry for Martha, but she'd had nearly nine months as starting Chaser, which was good going for a reserve not long out of school.

“Have an answer to me by next Thursday, shall we say? That ought to give you time to think about your childcare options and so on.”  
  
Dazed, she agreed without really knowing what she was agreeing to and stumbled outside. The optimistic sunshine of the weekend had given way to dull grey clouds and drizzle, and she pulled the hood of her cloak up before turning on her heel and Apparating to Ottery St. Catchpole.   
  
The kitchen of the Burrow was its usual hub of organised bedlam; dishes scrubbed themselves in the sink, a knife efficiently sliced vegetables on the worksurface and the mellow West Country burr of Tilden Toots issued from the wireless, advising on the handling of Fanged Geraniums. George and Angelina’s nine month old Freddie was ploughing across the floor on hands and knees, industriously unravelling a ball of wool as he went; nearby, Freddie’s two-year old sister Olivia and James were crashing around with a set of small toy dragons that Ginny was fairly sure had once belonged to Charlie (they’d once breathed harmless fire, but were very worn and battered now; as she watched, one of them emitted a feeble stream of pale smoke from its nostrils). At the helm of the chaos was Molly Weasley, calmly bouncing Al on her knee while a pair of knitting needles click-clacked away in mid-air in front of her, producing what Ginny suspected was baby’s first Weasley jumper.

“Oh, hello, dear.” Molly pointed her wand at the wireless, lowering Tilden Toots to a background murmur. “How was your meeting?”   
  
Ginny hadn’t planned to, but she found herself sagging into a chair and pouring out the whole saga - from Heather’s letter to the Quidditch club to Victoria - to her mum.   
  
“... and she thinks that if I’m fit, there’s no reason for me not to come back,” she finished, closing her fingers gratefully around the mug of tea Molly set in front of her. “But …”   
  
“You feel guilty?” Molly guessed shrewdly.   
  
Ginny nodded. She traced her fingertips over the roughly hewn earthenware mug in an attempt to focus on something other than the tide of distress that was welling up in her chest, threatening to burst the dam she’d carefully constructed.   
  
“Am I being selfish, Mum?” she blurted out, unable to hold it in; she blinked away the hot prickle of tears and turned to see her mother looking as astonished as if Ginny had just confessed a deep-seated desire to take a Ministry desk job and start wearing beige.   
  
“What on Earth makes you think that?”   
  
“I _want_ this. I don’t like the idea of not being with the boys, but I want to go back more than I want to stay with them.”   
  
“Well, this is your career,” said Molly. “You worked very hard to get where you did.” This was high praise indeed coming from her mum, who never claimed to understand Quidditch and hadn’t exactly been over the moon to learn that Ginny intended to play it for a living. “And raising children is often a thankless job, heaven knows I know that. If you have something else that fulfills you, I can see why you wouldn’t want to give that up.”   
  
“But you stayed at home with all of us. You didn’t work.”   
  
“No, but I never did, dear, so I had nothing to give up.” Molly’s expression was pensive. “Sometimes I wonder … when I left school I was so afraid for my loved ones that I wasn’t thinking about a career. Your father and I eloped, and by the time Bill was on the way, I hadn’t yet decided what I wanted to do, and I was perfectly happy making and keeping a home.”   
  
Ginny must have pulled a face, because her mother reached out and drew one of her hands into her own reassuringly. “Yes, I know that’s not what you want, and that’s just fine as well.”   
  
“But that’s not what people will say. And that’s not … how I feel. I _feel_ like I’m having to make a choice.” She heaved such a deep sigh that it startled Al, who stared at her with worried dark blue eyes, mouth slightly open.   
  
“Yes, well, people will talk, those awful gossip rags,” said Molly briskly, glossing over the fact that she subscribed to several of those awful gossip rags (only for the recipes, mind). “That’s being in the public eye - you should have seen the way they dragged poor Celestina through the mud after her second marriage ended. If you stayed at home with your children you can be sure some people would be out there telling the world you ought to be putting your career first.”   
  
“So … you think I should do it? Go back?”   
  
“It doesn’t matter what I think, dear. The best thing for your lovely boys is that you’re happy and fulfilled and set a good example to them. Why, your father could easily have had a much better paying job, but we wanted to show you children the importance of principles and hard work, and that they’re much more valuable than gold.”   
  
_And Dad wanted to muck around with Muggle stuff_ , Ginny thought wryly, but all she said was, “Thanks, Mum.”   
  
“You’re welcome, dear.” Molly patted her hand, and Ginny leant her head on her mother’s shoulder, inhaling her comforting, ever-familiar scent.   
  
“I am very proud of you, you know,” she heard Molly say after a moment.   
  
\---   
  
There was never really a good time to have a serious conversation when you had two children, so Ginny waited until she and Harry were getting ready for bed to broach the subject. She wished she’d had the foresight to get the camera, because his reaction - astonishment, followed by a delighted grin stretching from ear to ear as he hoisted her into his arms, baby weight and all, to spin her round - was something she wanted to remember.   
  
“The World Cup!” he kept repeating when he set her back down, hands gripping his hair and making it even more dishevelled than usual. She wondered if he was seeing the same image she was, of red and white robes with _POTTER_ on the back. “This is amazing, I’m so happy for you -”   
  
“It’ll mean I can’t always look after James and Al,” Ginny pointed out. “I nearly said no -”   
  
Harry looked at her as if she was quite mad. “You almost - what?”   
  
“I’m their mum! I feel like I should be with them …”   
  
“I’m their dad, and when McGonagall offered me this job I didn’t even think about whether I should choose to stay at home instead,” Harry said. “Which is probably really bad, now I think about it, but - Gin, you’ve earned this. We talked about James starting nursery in January anyway. Angelina and Fleur both went back to work when their kids were still in nappies, didn’t they?”   
  
This was true. “So …”   
  
“So, I think we ought to have another race this weekend,” said Harry, eyes glittering, and she loved him dearly in that moment for being her rock, her unwavering support. Maybe she didn’t need it; maybe she could support herself fine. But she wanted it, and look out world, because Ginny Potter was damn well taking what she wanted.   
  
“Oh? Why’s that?”   
  
“Well, I reckon you’d better start getting used to winning again.” 


	14. Grown Up Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aah, I am sorry about the wait! Frustratingly, most of this chapter was written about two years ago, but my computer lost it all and I only had the last part written by hand. Here we are now, though! With extra innuendo. You're welcome.

Steadily through the night had come the blizzard, muffling the cobblestones and rooftops of Hogsmeade beneath a thick white blanket. By mid-morning it had been embroidered with deep footprints of the villagers, though the sombre sky promised more to come later: the Potters’ garden, which had been clean and untouched at sunrise, now looked exactly how you might expect a snowy lawn to look if you unleashed a boisterous toddler upon it.   
  
The skies opened up again in the afternoon, stout snowflakes doggedly swirling about the French windows in the kitchen. James had pressed his nose up against the glass once his parents had plucked him, sodden, from the garden, smearing the panes with the deep sighs of a deeply troubled soul; it had only taken half an hour of screaming for him to recognise that a subtler approach was more likely to help him get what he wanted _,_ whereupon he had positioned himself in front of the windows and adopted a tragic expression _,_ like the cat when it was pretending it hadn't been fed. _Tough_ , thought Harry amusedly, scrawling an appreciative comment on the bottom of Callisto Jones’ essay on curse detection. Quidditch club had been cancelled due to the snow, Ginny was training in Holyhead - he hoped the weather was better in Wales - and he was the sole captain of HMS Potter, attempting to wade through the housework as well as a stack of unmarked homework just as overwhelming as his regret at setting so much homework. Throw in the two small humans who required feeding, bathing and supervising, and - well, Harry was on his third coffee of the day and had newfound respect for mothers who were simply expected to juggle these tasks day in day out without pay, with or without a career.

Life was full these days, as the nights drew in and the trees stood bare. At school, the teachers and upper forms were gearing up for mock exams in January; Harry was conscious that this was the first real trial of his teaching ability, although he hadn’t taught them most of what they’d be tested on - how he steered them through revision and the newer topics would be reflected in the results, and he was determined to make a good showing. In the lower school, the approaching holidays were already loosening inhibitions, and Harry had struggled with his temper more than once when faced with the occasional bout of rudeness or silliness.

Ginny's return to the Harpies - which wouldn't be made public until January - certainly complicated the balance, but it was a complication they both wanted, and if there was a little more work to be done to keep everything afloat, Harry definitely wasn't complaining; after all, he'd taken the post at Hogwarts in order to spend more time with his family. It wasn't something he took for granted, not when he contemplated how many moments he might have missed had he still been an Auror, like Al's first proper smile, or James no longer needing nappies during the day. It still wasn't perfect - they were having to rely on Molly for childcare until after Christmas, as Hogsmeade’s nursery, Little Owls, would have a place opening up for James shortly after his third birthday. They took babies from three months, so Al would be joining his brother there from the 18th. But today was Saturday, and while his brother was staring wistfully out of the window Al dozed peacefully in his travel cot, oblivious to the fact that it was snowing for the first time in his young life. Well, he lived in Scotland, Harry reminded himself: he’d be seeing plenty of the stuff as he grew up.   
  
Al grunted in his sleep, eyelids twitching; James heaved a sigh and, Harry suspected, made a terrible smell. Another essay was marked and tossed onto the slowly growing completed pile. The clock ticked, the pipes creaked, and snow continued to drift past the window. Harry, refilling the ink in his quill, revelled in the tranquillity. You never knew how long moments like this would last, and he had learned that it was important to treasure them, as before too long something could happen to disturb the peace entirely -   
  
The doorbell rang.   
  
\- like that.   
  
The doorbell itself wasn’t such a problem, but it was the catalyst for a sequence of them, the first domino to fall: James shouted _"_ _DING-DONG!”_ so loudly that Harry jumped and spilled his ink bottle, Al woke and started wailing, and the cat - who had been sleeping on the table - bolted, streaking through the puddle of ink and leaving a trail of black pawprints across the kitchen floor in its wake.   
  
“TAT!” James bellowed, lunging after it. Harry floundered for a second - this was progress, he had previously floundered for up to a minute when first encountering these sorts of situations - before leaving James to it (he wouldn’t catch the cat, anyway) and grabbing Al, now red in the face and obviously working up to even greater volumes. Baby in one arm and murmuring soothing words, he found his wand with his free hand and first siphoned the ink from his marking (it was a little darker than it ought to be, but it would do) and then cleaned the inky paw prints. The doorbell rang again, but with James now gone (Harry reasoned that he only need be concerned if he heard him falling down the stairs) it elicited no reaction other than a hiccup from Al, whose wails had reduced to aggravated grizzling.   
  
The perpetrator of the chaos was unimpressed when Harry finally answered the door.

“Bloomin’ cold, you know!” He pointed at his long freckled nose, now a fetching shade of pink, to illustrate his point. “Here I am, doing a good deed -”

“Carol singing, are you?” asked Harry.

Ron brandished a large biscuit tin at him. “Bringing you a gift, _actually,_ you ungrateful sod.”

“Oh?” Harry eyed his offering appraisingly. “What’ve you got there, then?”

“Ginger nuts.”

“I meant in the tin.”

Ron gave him a thoroughly unimpressed look and pushed past him into the house, stamping snow off his boots on the mat. Grinning, Harry followed him down the hallway and into the kitchen. Al had, as predicted, drifted back to sleep.  
  
Ron, peering down at him in his cot, looked mildly surprised by what he saw.   
  
“Blimey, he’s growing fast, isn’t he? I only saw him last week …”   
  
“Yeah,” Harry agreed, pulling two mugs from the cupboard and setting the kettle to boil. “Turns out all you need to do is feed and water them. They can get really big, apparently. Some even get to over six feet.”   
  
The sarcastic response he was sure he’d have received from Ron was lost as the human cannonball he had fathered careered through the door at top speed, spotted his godfather, and turned faintly purple with suppressed excitement.   
  
“WON!” James hugged Ron’s knees, which was the highest part of him he could reach. “Come see naminals!”   
  
Ron looked blankly at Harry.   
  
“Animals,” Harry translated swiftly. To James, he added, “me and Uncle Ron are having some grown-up time right now, OK? Why don’t you - er - go and find your broom, then you can bring it down to show us.”   
  
This was a fairly safe bet, as James had a tendency to carry his toy broomstick around the house with him, leave it somewhere, and forget where he’d put it. He gave Ron’s legs another enormous hug and toddled off; they heard him thumping up the stairs a moment later.   
  
“I hope you’re not expecting the same sort of grown-up time that you have with Ginny,” Ron said, pulling up a chair at the table and taking the mug of tea Harry passed him. “I like you, mate, but not that much.”   
  
“Now you tell me, after I spend hundreds of Galleons on a romantic trip to Paris for your birthday …”   
  
The biscuits Ron had made were delicious: slightly chewy but with a good crunch, and though he wouldn’t dare say it within fifty feet of the Burrow, better than Molly’s. Harry brushed crumbs off his sweatshirt and reached for another. “I like your nuts,” he said, straight-faced.   
  
He was expecting Ron to snigger, and come straight back with something equally innuendo-laden and immature, but instead he just smiled half-heartedly and sipped his tea. Harry frowned. Now he thought about it, Ron hadn’t laughed at his ginger nuts joke, either, which wasn’t like him at all. He’d been making typical Ron comments, but the words had lacked his usual humour, and on closer inspection his smile, which was rather strained, didn’t quite reach his eyes.   
  
“All right.” Harry abandoned the biscuit he’d been about to dunk in his tea. “What are you not telling me?”   
  
Ron looked startled, then guarded. “What?” he said defensively. “I’m not not telling you anything.”   
  
“Well, you’re not not _not_ telling me anything.”   
  
“I’m not not not not - bloody hell,” Ron growled, setting his mug down forcefully so that tea slopped over the sides. Harry wordlessly handed him a damp cloth. “Can’t I just come round without getting the third degree?”   
  
“You can,” said Harry, “but I don’t see the point in you coming round if you’re going to pretend nothing’s up when obviously something is.”   
  
Ron’s face darkened. “Well, if there’s no point me being here then I’ll go, shall I?” He flung the cloth back on the table and stood up, his chair scraping harshly against the flagstone as he kicked it back.   
  
“Sit down, will you?” said Harry impatiently. “You know that’s not what I meant.” He was more than a little thrown by Ron’s reaction, but it only served to make him absolutely certain that something was wrong - and slightly peeved that Ron wasn’t willing to confide in him. They’d been friends for fourteen years, been each other’s best men at their weddings, been through the very worst of situations together … what could be so bad that Ron didn’t want to tell him?   
  
“Look,” he said, quieter. “I can tell something’s bothering you, OK? And I thought you’d know that I’d want to help, if I could. Or just - listen.”   
  
To his relief, Ron did sit down, rubbing his nose in the way he always did when he was embarrassed or worried. He stared down at his cup for a minute or two, and Harry could see a full spectrum of emotions passing over his face. He was getting genuinely worried when Ron looked at him and said, “Hermione’s been acting … strange.”   
  
Harry didn’t really know what to say to that. He was very fond of Hermione, but he thought it couldn’t be denied that she was already quite strange. She alphabetised her quills, for Merlin’s sake.   
  
“Erm,” he said. “When you say _strange_ …”   
  
“Strange for Hermione, I mean.” Ron didn’t seem offended, which was good, as he could be touchy when it came to Hermione. “She’s been working loads, even on weekends, and staying in the study most of the time when she’s home, and she barely talks to me. She just looks stressed and - I dunno, upset.”   
  
“If she’s working a lot, don’t you think it’s just work stress?” Harry suggested. “Trying to shift some of those pro-pureblood laws won’t be easy, and you know Hermione, she always gives herself too much to do.”   
  
“Yeah, but why wouldn’t she tell me? She usually tells me about work stuff. And I’ve asked her if everything’s all right, and she just says it’s fine.”

“Well … maybe it is fine.”

Ron shook his head. The worry he'd been trying to conceal before was evident now in his expression. “She's my wife. I know this isn't right, I know something's up.” He paused, seeming to debate whether or not to say what was on his mind.

“Mate,” Harry said, in what he hoped was a reassuring voice. “Whatever you're thinking, I'm sure …”

“I think - I think she might have found someone else.”  
\---   
  
Harry found himself unable to sleep well after Ron’s visit, even though - as he’d told Ron, without hesitation - he didn’t for a second think Hermione wanted to leave him. She loved Ron: it was just one of those facts, like the sun rising in the east or apples growing on trees. He was nonetheless irritated with her - Ron wasn’t nearly as insecure as he had been, but it wasn’t something you simply grew out of - for acting like she was, whatever the reason might be.   
  
“D’you want me to try talking to her?” he’d asked Ron, but at that moment Ginny had arrived home and Ron had just looked panicked and shaken his head and left, citing some excuse about a stock take that was overdue. Then Al had woken up and wanted feeding, and dinner needed cooking and James had a tantrum over peas (they were too green) and Harry didn’t have time to worry about his best friends’ marriage until he was in bed. While he knew they loved each other, he didn’t think Hermione would take kindly to being accused of cheating, were Ron to blurt it out in a fight - although Ron had said they weren’t even arguing, which Harry had to agree was a bad sign. Arguing was one of Hermione’s top three hobbies, along with reading and making colour-coded schedules.   
  
He tried to push it out of his mind the next day, and enjoy his time with Ginny, who was exhausted but undoubtedly happier than he’d seen her in a while, although he knew she still felt guilty about getting more pleasure from Quidditch than from being at home with the children - like Ron’s insecurity, that wasn’t something which went away after a pep talk and a hug. Sunday morning was a lazy affair; wrapped up in dressing gowns against the December chill as snow continued to fall beyond the windows, the four of them crashed out on the sofa, James spread-eagled across both his mother and father and Al snuggled into Ginny’s chest. It was these moments Harry had sworn he’d never taken for granted, but life was so busy, it was hard not to, and so easy not to stop and look, remember that once upon a time there had seemed little chance he’d survive to adulthood, let alone be able to spend a morning on the sofa with his family, three people who shared his last name, absently playing with his wife’s hair while she told him all about training, laughing at her impersonations of the coach and other players. When he did, he could quite easily see the future, one that didn’t seem like a dream, but a certainty: James and Al running in from the garden, helping them with homework at the kitchen table, a lifetime of lazy Sunday mornings with Ginny.   
  
They headed over to the Burrow at noon; Sunday lunch was a standing invitation, open to anyone and everyone every weekend without fail, and Harry had a sneaking suspicion that Molly cooked enough for the entire family regardless of whether any of her children showed up - Arthur, who had always been a thin man, was decidedly thicker around the middle these days. Devon hadn’t seen any snow, but there was a sharp frost covering the yard; Arthur and Percy came in shortly after the Potters’ arrival red-faced and briskly rubbing frozen hands together from a walk across the hills overlooked by the Burrow.   
  
Ron and Hermione weren’t there, but that wasn’t necessarily cause for concern, Harry reminded himself, as they sometimes went to the Grangers’ instead. George and Angelina were, though, drinking wine in the living room and chatting to Bill and Fleur, whose three blonde, well-mannered and multilingual children were playing with Olivia and Freddie. Victoire, the eldest at five, seemed to be effectively supervising the behaviour of her younger siblings and cousins with the subtle Veela charm she’d inherited from her mother. Harry let James down to join them, and within seconds heard Victoire say, “No, James, we are playing nicely today.”   
  
At the table he found himself trapped next to Percy, who engaged him in an enthusiastic (and one-sided) discussion on the Ministry’s updated classifications for Non-Tradeable Materials. Ginny, being peppered with questions about Quidditch by Bill, George and Angelina, kept nudging his foot under the table and throwing him occasional winks.   
  
“... about the Ministry? Funny business …”

Harry's ears pricked up. Cutting off Percy in the middle of disclosing his personal opinions on the classification of Boomslang skin, he addressed Arthur, who had spoken. “What's happened? What funny business?”

“Oh, it's rather silly, really … the Christmas trees have gone missing. Vanished, by the looks of it. From every floor.” Arthur removed his glasses and polished them on his jumper, then said, “You know how it's something of a competition between departments, who has the most extravagant decorations. Well, they disappeared overnight on Thursday. Security hasn't a clue, says no one got past them.”

“Who'd want to steal Christmas trees?”

“Some disgruntled employee, I expect, wanting a raise,” said Molly. “More crumble, Harry?”

“No thanks … But if it was someone wanting a raise, what's the point of doing it anonymously?” Harry asked, frowning. “Like when Magical Maintenance play with the weather, we know it's them.”

“I reckon the Aurors will be on the case,” George said, grinning at him. “It’s got Dark Magic written all over it. I just hope they catch the culprit before they strike again. Lock away your baubles, everyone -”

“You shouldn't have your baubles out in the first place, this is a family dinner,” said Ginny primly. Molly looked scandalised; Harry, George and Bill cracked up.

“Ginny!”

“Maman, why does Uncle George have his baubles out now?” Victoire asked her mother curiously. “We haven't got our tree up yet.”

“Can't you get your tree up, Bill? I hear that happens when you get old -”

“George! Enough!” snapped Molly loudly, over the tide of laughter from the adults. Even Percy was smiling. She jabbed her wand sharply at the pudding dishes, which rose smoothly in the air and stacked themselves neatly in her hands, and marched over to the sink, muttering irritably about _setting a bad example_ and _not how grown ups should act._

As they tried to compose themselves at the table, Fleur spoke into the silence that was broken only by Ginny’s hiccups.

“Bill 'as no problem with 'is tree, actually. Eet works perfectly.”

That set Ginny off again, giggling uncontrollably, especially when Bill shot a smug look at George.

“I don't understand,” said Victoire quietly. 

\---  
  
Something Harry had discovered since becoming a teacher was that he was no better at marking homework on time than he had been at doing it. He was still at it come Sunday night, squinting blearily at the squat rounded handwriting of a fourth year.   
  
Beside him, Ginny yawned, resting her head on his shoulder. “We haven’t got our tree up yet, either.”   
  
“The boys are asleep,” said Harry at once, forgetting about homework in an instant, “just give me a minute -”   
  
Ginny laughed, swatting him lightly. “Not that tree, you randy bugger. Although it _would_ be fun to decorate …”   
  
“Oh.” Harry tried to hide his disappointment. “I knew that. Erm, I’ll get one from Hagrid tomorrow, shall I?”   
  
Thinking about Christmas trees made him recall Arthur’s news about the odd theft at the Ministry, which in turn made him think about Ron and the conversation they’d had yesterday. He decided not to mention it to Ginny; as far as he knew she hadn’t seen Hermione recently, and he didn’t want to risk her exploding at Ron for jumping to conclusions.

He had to push it from his mind upon waking on Monday morning, focusing instead on lesson plans and revision sessions and putting his shoes on the right feet. The biting early morning air was like a slap in the face from a snowman, but at least it woke him up somewhat, even if he was numb to his toes when he reached the castle. His hopes of defrosting in front of the fire in his office were themselves evaporated when Neville, bounding down the main staircase, called his name and informed him that there was a staff meeting.

“Now?” Harry frowned, automatically putting out a hand to steady Neville as he tripped on the last step. “Why, has something happened?”

Neville shrugged. “I've been, erm, away all weekend.”

“Seeing your gran?” They'd fallen into step together walking to the staffroom, but Harry happened to glance across as Neville hesitated, his cheeks flaring pink.

“ _Oh_ ,” said Harry. “Not seeing your gran. It's going well with Hannah, then? Er - it is Hannah, right?” he added quickly, in case gaining the confidence to ask one girl out had turned Neville into some kind of Lothario (unlikely, but you never knew).

“It's going really, really well,” Neville told him, round face shining with barely restrained joy. “I mean, I think it is, anyway. She seems to be having a nice time, although -”

Harry held up a hand to stop him, and not just because they'd reached the staffroom. “Don't doubt yourself!” he said sternly. “Hannah's got free will, right? She obviously wants to be with you.” Ginny probably would have taken Neville firmly by the shoulders and given him a talking to about being kind to himself and not assuming he wasn't good enough, but the door of the staffroom swung open at that moment and they hurried inside, joining the rest of the staff, most of whom looked as confused as Harry felt - except Hagrid, he noticed, whose usual smile was absent.

“Thank you for giving me your time this morning, although I do not intend to take much of it,” said McGonagall. She was impassive as ever; it was hard to glean any clues about what had happened - _but it can't be anything really bad_ , the voice of reason in Harry's head reassured him.

“This is rather an odd matter,” she went on. “And perhaps rather trivial, too, but nonetheless … the Christmas trees, which Hagrid kindly supplies for the Great Hall every year, disappeared some time between midnight and half past six this morning.”

There was a lot of muttering at this pronouncement, but Harry didn't hear any of it: Arthur's words were ringing clear as a bell in his ears. _It's rather silly, really … the Christmas trees have gone missing …_

“The Ministry!” he said aloud, causing everyone to look round at him. His face grew warmer; he coughed, and clarified, “That happened at the Ministry offices in London, too - my father-in-law said so yesterday.”

He met McGonagall's eye. The disappearance of Christmas trees was on paper nothing to worry about, but Harry was certain that she was thinking along the same lines as him: they could never be too cautious, not now. The Ministry and Hogwarts were two high profile locations. Targets, in other words, Harry thought grimly.

“I see,” McGonagall said. “Well, I am sure there is nothing sinister behind it, but we mustn't encourage this sort of thing, so I will ask you all to seek what information you can from the students. I will address them shortly. And … I advise you all to be vigilant.”

Cadmus Heyes snorted. “This isn't the Auror Office. It'll have been one of the students who heard about it happening at the Ministry and thought it was a good joke.”

He threw a particularly scathing look at Harry, who gathered that the Auror Office comment was meant for him.

“Watch yer tone, tha's the Headmistress yer talking ter,” Hagrid growled.  
  
“Thank you, Hagrid,” said McGonagall. “As I said, I am sure there is no sinister motive here, but it would be foolish not to be cautious.” There was a note of warning in her voice, which Heyes evidently heard, because he shook his head contemptuously and sat back in his seat. “If no one has any other concerns -”   
  
Someone cleared their throat loudly; McGonagall paused and looked over at Karen Wilde, the witch who taught Magical Arts and Crafts. Harry never felt entirely comfortable around her: she had a piercing gaze and very dramatic air about he. Her thick dark hair and heavily-lined eyes often made him think of Cleopatra, although the illusion was spoiled somewhat when she spoke in a strong Newcastle accent.   
  
“I had an idea for improving _staff unity_.” Her eyes travelled the room, gazing at everyone in turn, which was rather disconcerting. If staff unity involved heavy eye contact, then Harry wasn’t sure he was in favour of it. “As you may know, my mam is a Muggle, and she says at her office they are doing a thing called _Secret Santa_. Everyone puts their name in a hat, and each person draws a name, and they buy a small gift for that person.”   
  
McGonagall’s eyebrows had been travelling further and further up her forehead with each word. At ‘Secret Santa’, she had looked positively dismayed.   
  
“I’m not sure -”   
  
“Ah now, that sounds like a lovely idea to me, Minerva!” said Durene Thompson cheerfully. “It is the season of giving, after all!”   
  
Others were nodding in agreement.   
  
“Very well,” McGonagall said through gritted teeth. “We shall do … Secret Santa. Professor Wilde, I will leave the - er - details to you.”   
  
\---   
  
The missing Christmas trees were obvious at once upon entering the Great Hall for lunch, even though they only stood there for a few weeks of the school year. Harry, remembering Christmases spent at Hogwarts, felt a pang in his stomach as he took his seat.   
  
His mood was not improved by the sight of Professor Wilde brandishing her hat, which she had filled with scraps of parchment. “Pick a name - no peeking!” she trilled. “And remember to keep it secret!”   
  
Harry surreptitiously crossed his fingers as he reached into the hat. _Please be Neville … Neville or Hagrid …_ _  
_ He passed the hat down the table and bent his head to unfold the parchment.   
  
_Minerva,_ it read. Harry stared at it for a minute, then shoved it in his pocket, swearing internally. Just his luck - what on Earth was he supposed to get Professor McGonagall?   
He made a mental note to ask Ginny, and turned back to his lunch, his appetite waning rapidly.   
  
It started to snow again mid-afternoon, the sky so overcast that it seemed like night had come already; Harry peered through his classroom window, dimly able to make out the blazing windows of his house through the thickly swirling blizzard. He imagined Ginny holding Al up to the window to look at the snow and smiled. Not long now …   
  
“Sir?”   
  
His sixth years had come in, and one was holding out a small scroll.   
  
“Professor McGonagall asked me to give you this.”   
  
Hoping it contained instructions for buying her a Christmas gift under a Galleon, Harry unfurled it. The message was short and to the point.   
  
_Kindly see me in my office at the end of the day._ _  
_ _  
_ Harry suppressed a groan. For some reason this day already seemed to have lasted twice its length; all he wanted to do was go home, put on his slippers - the ones Ginny always teased him about - and be with his family. He dismissed his last class punctually and headed over to the Head’s office while they were still packing away. McGonagall was writing something when he entered, but she gestured for Harry to take a seat. He nodded politely at the portraits who greeted him. Dumbledore doffed his hat with a smile.   
  
“Several things,” said McGonagall, setting her quill down. “Firstly, the matter of the Christmas trees. Despite what I said this morning, the fact that it has also happened at the Ministry does concern me somewhat. After all the trouble, even though we have - mostly - had peace for so long, one cannot help but fear the worst when something strange occurs. It may well be nothing, but I prefer to err on the side of caution.”   
  
“Sounds sensible to me,” said Harry. “So - what do you want me to do?”   
  
“For now, I would like you to put your skills to use in attempting to get to the bottom of this.” She raised her eyebrows. “You always did have a talent for finding out things you shouldn’t, after all.”   
  
Harry grinned. “I’ll do my best,” he promised. “There was another thing, you said?”   
  
For the first time in Harry’s memory, McGonagall looked rather sheepish. She shuffled some papers on her desk.   
  
“Ah. Yes. That.” She coughed sharply, and at last met Harry’s eye again. “The Christmas concert.”   
  
“What Christmas concert?”   
  
“Well, quite,” murmured McGonagall, her familiar expression of faint irritation returning. “Some of the governors feel that the … ahem … _culture_ of the school would benefit from putting on a festive show at the end of term. I believe this sort of thing is commonplace in Muggle schools, but Hogwarts has never attempted it.”   
  
“Not entirely true, Minerva,” said Dumbledore. “There was a dramatisation of _the Fountain of Fair Fortune_ performed in my time as a teacher. It was, in a word, disastrous.”   
  
“Which is why we will not be doing anything similar,” said McGonagall firmly, “despite Mrs Connelly’s ideas about her daughter’s ambitions for WADA … no, a small musical concert, I think. The orchestra can play -”   
  
“There’s an orchestra?” said Harry, frowning.   
  
McGonagall fixed him with a blank look. “Well, yes. How on earth did you fail to be aware of that during six years here?”   
  
Harry felt this was a little unfair. “There were quite a lot of people trying to kill me,” he said defensively. “That was pretty distracting.”   
  
“Anyway,” said McGonagall, sounding amused. “The orchestra will play, and we can have some singing. Traditional wizarding carols, nothing new. Are you familiar with any?”   
  
An image of Sirius singing _God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs_ popped into Harry’s mind. “Some,” he hedged. “And how do I come into this?”   
  
McGonagall did, at least, look slightly apologetic as she dropped the bombshell.   
  
“I would like you to organise it.”   
  
“Me?” Harry knocked several things off the desk in his alarm, and scrambled to pick them up again. “But - I can’t sing! Or play an instrument. I mean, we all had to do the recorder at school but -”   
  
“I said organise it, Professor, not perform in it,” McGonagall said drily. “I _am_ sorry to put this on you, but you engage well with the students and you have … considerable leadership skills and organisational abilities.”   
  
This was news to Harry. “I do?”   
  
This was met with another Look. “We’ll discuss it further later in the week, if you are agreeable.”   
  
Harry’s eyes sought Dumbledore, who winked at him. Absently, he wondered if he could sneak in one day and ask his old Headmaster what he would get McGonagall for Secret Santa. This made him think of Snape participating, and he had to hastily turn a snort of laughter into a cough.   
  
“Well, all right,” he said reluctantly. “If you’re sure …”   
  
Head spinning slightly - what were traditional wizarding carols? - Harry headed back to his office. He had just pulled on his cloak when there was a _pop_ from the fireplace. Ron’s head had appeared in the flames.   
  
“All right, mate?” he said. “I was just going to nip into the Hog’s Head, if you fancy a drink.”   
  
Harry was tempted to say no, but Ron’s appearance had reminded him of their conversation on Saturday, so he agreed.   
  
“See you in a few,” said Ron, and his head vanished with another _pop_.   
  
Before he left, Harry stuck his own head in the fire and called home.   
  
“Ron wants to have a quick drink at Ab’s,” he told Ginny apologetically. “I can’t wait to get home, but -”   
  
“Oh, go on, have your man drink,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll put dinner on, shall I? You know what happens when you cook drunk.”   
  
“I’m not going to get drunk,” Harry protested, but he smiled. “Thanks, Gin. See you later. Love you.”   
  
Ginny blew a kiss.   
  
He cast every weather-proofing charm he could think of before setting out into the snow; he could hardly see in front of him, but the large flakes whirling around him didn’t touch his face, and his extremities were largely protected from the cold. He was glad, as the Hog’s Head was as dark and gloomy as ever. For the dozenth time that day, he thought of his warm, welcoming house up the road, and shook his head as Ron hailed him from a corner.   
  
“On me,” he said as Harry sat down, pushing a dusty bottle to him. “You look knackered.”   
  
In response, Harry took a long swig of his drink, exhaled, and sank back into his chair.   
  
“Yeah. Long day.” He filled Ron in on the mystery of the missing Christmas trees at Hogwarts and the Ministry. “Thought I’d see you at the Burrow yesterday. Where were you?”   
  
Ron groaned.   
  
“Hermione’s parents’. Merlin, it was awkward. It always is a bit with them, but with Hermione acting like she is … her mum and dad could tell something was up, obviously, but she wouldn’t tell them what, just said she was fine.”   
  
“And are you still thinking …” Harry tailed off. “I mean, have you found anything out …?”   
  
“Not really. No. But she says she’s going to Diagon Alley on Saturday. Christmas shopping, ‘cause I asked if she wanted to go to the Cannons match.”   
  
“That’s not really suspicious, not wanting to go to the Cannons match,” Harry pointed out.   
  
“Yeah, yeah, but … she could easily be doing something else, couldn’t she? So I was thinking … maybe …”   
  
Ron no longer sounded glum, but Harry didn’t like where this was leading.   
  
“What?” he asked sharply.   
  
“Well, y’know, we don’t get to do any investigating or anything these days, do we?” said Ron. “You kind of miss the Auror work -”   
  
“I haven’t had chance to miss it yet!”   
  
“So I’m thinking we could have a kind of club, just as a hobby - solving mysteries and stuff. Former Aurors Reunite. Temporarily.”   
  
Harry frowned.   
  
“F.A.R.T.?”   
  
“Did you?” said Ron unconcernedly.   
  
“No, I mean … never mind.” Harry sipped his drink, not at all deceived by this suggestion. “And what we do in this _club_? __"  
  
“Well, I could help with the Christmas tree thing,” said Ron enthusiastically. “We can solve that.”   
  
“And …”   
  
“And … you could help me with _my_ thing.” The last part was a mumble. Harry groaned.   
  
“Following Hermione? Do you really think that’s a good idea?”   
  
“No, I don’t,” Ron snapped. His ears had gone red. “But what choice do I have, Harry? I have to know, OK? I _have_ to.”   
  
“I’m sure it’s not -”   
  
“Well, I wish I could be so sure.”   
  
Harry opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to think of the best thing to say. He and Ron had been friends long enough for him to recognise that this wasn’t about doubting Hermione: it was about doubting himself. Still, he wasn’t sure Hermione would see it that way.   
  
“I don’t …”   
  
“If you won’t help, I’ll just do it on my own,” Ron interrupted flatly, and Harry relented.   
  
“Fine,” he agreed. “Saturday. But even if she’s not there, Ron, it doesn’t necessarily mean -”   
  
“It means she’s lying to me,” said Ron. “Whatever the reason, I don’t think that bodes well, do you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabe & co. will be making further appearances, but at the moment Harry has more pressing problems ...


	15. Storms on the Horizon, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been split into two parts, hence the shorter length.   
> Part Two coming soon.

_ DECEIT, DISHONOUR AND DOUBLE LIVES _

_ THE DUMBLEDORE'S ARMY REUNION YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO SEE _

The headline might as well have been a Howler for all the subtlety and restraint it had. Harry didn’t have to look at Ginny to know the expression she would be wearing as she stood over him, having just slapped the  _ Sunday Prophet _ on the table before him.

“And here I thought you were going Christmas shopping,” she said.

\---   
  
Things, things, things. Being an adult, Harry decided, was just a whole series of doing things and things happening to you and all the while stressing about what things you hadn’t done yet and whether you had time to do the things while doing other things. He wasn’t sure why some people thought teaching was an easy option - they couldn’t have ever tried it, because Harry reckoned no one would need more than a week as a teacher before they changed their tune sharpish.    
  
Although he held onto his practical magic club for the first years - covering packing and folding spells in the run-up to the holidays - he’d had to reluctantly hand over the reins of Quidditch club to Jack Morgan, one of the Games and Sports teachers, having far too much else now piled on his plate with upcoming exams and the Christmas show and parenting and - when he had a spare minute - puzzling over the missing Christmas trees and worrying about his best friends’ marriage. It really was a shame Hermione was being so distant, as he could have used her to help organise his time; one of the biggest struggles of having so many Things was working out which one you should do first. He thought about what his fifteen year old self would say if he heard himself wishing for one of Hermione’s planners, and felt vaguely ashamed that he’d been so dismissive of them in the past.    
  
Weirdly, he found that he was actually quite enjoying being in charge of the school concert. He was responsible for the overall organisation of it - coordinating all those involved, working out the running order, arranging for the building of a stage and getting tickets printed and sold. A letter would be sent home to all parents inviting them, although Muggle parents, unless they were happy to travel up to the Highlands, weren’t likely to make it; Harry had swallowed his pride and asked Cadmus Heyes, who was interested in technology, about the possibility of modifying a video camera to allow it to record the show.    
  
He felt a sense of being part of the school in a way he hadn’t so far, joshing with the students in rehearsals and sitting down with Durene, the jolly head of Hufflepuff who took the choir, and Titus, the orchestra leader, to work things out. Neither of them seemed to mind that the newest and youngest member of staff had been given the job, and it was strangely heartening to be stopped in the corridor by one of them to chat about a new idea, or asked if they were having a lunchtime rehearsal. He was getting to know more of the students who weren’t in his classes as well, from Amy Pluck, a good-natured sixth year and talented violinist, to David Bishop, who struggled academically and often lost his temper in class but had been recruited into the choir due to his surprisingly rich, powerful singing voice. Harry knew that David had butted heads with almost every teacher in the school at some point during his seven years there, but he was clearly very fond of Durene Thompson, and her praise made his wary eyes shine with pride.    
  
“See? There’s always a silver lining,” Ginny reminded Harry, when the stress of everything else threatened to draw a black cloud over the pleasure he got from the show. She was looking stronger and happier by the day, returning from training windswept and with roses in her cheeks, content to snuggle up in front of the fire with her boys, as she called them, and swap news. Harry was glad to have her to bounce ideas off, especially when it came to the missing Christmas trees, which wasn’t so much an investigation as it was a complete mystery. If the trees were still in the castle they were very well hidden, for Summoning spells had yielded nothing and every floor had been searched in its entirety. Harry concluded that they must have been Vanished, but that wasn’t very helpful; Vanishing spells were on the fifth year syllabus and with the amount of magic cast in the Great Hall daily, from the house-elves to its use as a common area at the weekends, tracing who might have done it was impossible. Finding out what had happened to the ones at the Ministry was his best hope of a lead, and he felt frustratingly powerless having no access there nor any information aside from what Arthur or Percy could provide.    
  
On top of everything else there was Secret Santa, which he would have happily forced from his mind if it weren’t for Ginny (who found it very funny indeed) making daft suggestions (“Novelty cat slippers? A tartan negligee?”). Whoever had Harry, on the other hand, had an easy job of it, because it didn’t take much research to find out supposedly accurate information about his likes and hobbies: magazines like  _ Witch Weekly _ were always printing so-called celebrity profiles, giving fans a 'rare insight' into their lives. They tended to list things like 'favourite colour', 'one thing they can't leave home without', and 'favourite holiday destination' - and as Harry wasn't entirely sure of the answers to most of the questions, he was fairly unbothered by the fact that they were published without him having given a response. The answers they printed were a mix of pure creative licence (i.e. total bollocks, as Ron put it) and what they'd been told by Harry's in-laws, who were frequently bothered by journalists hoping for a scoop from within the family. Molly told them where they could go and Arthur and Percy were polite but firm in responding with 'no comment', but the rest of them got as much fun as possible out of the situation. Fleur usually fed them something nonsensical in a stream of rapid French, while Bill, George and Ron highly enjoyed themselves fabricating increasingly elaborate and ridiculous 'facts' about Harry. He had never quite forgiven George for telling  _ Bewitched _ magazine that he collected toilet seats; nor, he suspected, had the Ministry, who had had to deal with the large number sent to the Auror Office in the weeks after the article was printed. 

Niggling at the back of his mind throughout the week was what he’d agreed to do on Saturday - namely trying to find out if Hermione was in fact hiding something - and for once, very much dreaded the approach of the weekend. He had briefly forgotten that Teddy was due to visit and debated using that as a get-out clause - but Teddy, in one of those coincidences that never happened when you actually wanted them to, asked on Friday if they could go to Diagon Alley so he could get his Christmas presents, and - well, that was that. He was very excited about having another sort-of-brother to add to his presents list, which had once upon a time only consisted of his grandmother and Harry, and clutched the painstakingly handwritten list in his free hand as he and Harry Flooed to the Leaky Cauldron on Saturday morning, leaving Ginny helping James to make Christmas cards (or, more to the point, stopping James from gluing sequins to Al and the cat).    
  
Harry tugged his hat low over his forehead when they tumbled out of the fireplace, an ingrained habit despite the fact that people didn’t just recognise him for his scar now his picture had been on the front page of wizarding newspapers all over the world. He spotted Ron lounging against a pillar across the crowded bar, attracting a bit of attention himself. Unlike Harry, Ron actually liked being recognised, and was trying not to look too pleased about it when Harry and Teddy reached him.    
  
“All right, mate?” Ron ruffled Teddy’s hair. “What’ve you got for me today, then?”   
  
Teddy thought for a moment, then screwed up his face in concentration and turned his hair bright orange.    
  
“Cannons are playing today,” he told an admiring Ron.    
  
“Good lad. You keeping it like that?”   
  
“Umm … don’t think so.” After another few seconds of concentration, Cannons orange turned to jet black. Ron looked at Harry, eyebrows raised.    
  
“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, they say,” he said. “At least Teddy looks like he’s combed his.”   
  
Harry thought he seemed thinner; there were rings beneath his eyes the colour of rain clouds, deep purplish-grey and threatening storms on the horizon.    
  
“Come on, then,” he said bracingly, determined to keep spirits high for Teddy’s sake, whatever happened (which would be, he reassured himself in his head, that they saw Hermione shopping and this whole silly thing would be over). “Where first, Ted?”   
  
It was an overcast day, but Diagon Alley looked pretty anyway with its shopfronts decked in festive glory, proudly flaunting their wares in windows framed by jewel-bright lights. Harry had been in the wizarding world for fourteen years now, but he still felt a childish wonderment at the magical displays: the model steam train chugging around a quaint village scene behind the glass of Tinkers’ Toy Chest, the little toy villagers at the station waving as it went past; the mannequins modelling Madam Malkin’s new collection, striking poses for passers-by; the collectible Quidditch figurines zooming around the entrance of Quality Quidditch Supplies on miniature broomsticks, zigzagging round customers’ heads and shaking their fists at anyone who tried to grab them. Harry’s own children would grow up with magic as a fact of life, but he hoped he could still make sure they had that same sense of awe, of never taking for granted this thing that other children - and adults - only dreamed of.    
  
He held tightly onto Teddy’s hand as they wove through the mass of shoppers, scanning the street around them with sharp eyes more out of habit than anything else, listening with half an ear as Teddy kept up a stream of eager chatter about what he thought his gran would like for Christmas. He kept having to steer Ron around things and people he was about to collide with; he was doing a remarkable meerkat impression that at any other time would have been funny, but Harry’s heart sank to see Ron’s jaw taut as he stared wildly around, looking for a glimpse of bushy brown hair.    


They ducked into Madam Bobbin's Threads 'N’ Things to buy Andromeda's present, Teddy selecting some shimmery spools of thread that changed colour depending on the time of day. Harry was sorely tempted by a set of needlework patterns that at first glance showed dainty floral designs, but when you looked at them again spelled out rude words in delicate stitching. When Teddy was distracted he quickly bought them for Ginny, who enjoyed embroidery (although it was rather amusing to imagine Molly's face if he presented them to her instead on Christmas morning).   
  
In Tinker’s Toy Chest Teddy picked out a soft plush Puffskein for Al and a beautifully illustrated picture book called  _ Casper the Curious Crup  _ in Flourish and Blotts for James, carefully counting the coins from his money bag into the shopkeepers’ hands. Harry had felt very uncomfortable about the fact that he possessed more of the Black fortune than Andromeda, who had inherited nothing from her parents due to being disowned and flatly refused to accept anything owned by Bellatrix, instead donating every bit of gold from the Lestrange vault to a charity that had been set up to help Muggleborns whose lives had been turned upside down during the war. He knew she wouldn’t take any money directly, but he had insisted on putting a significant amount into a vault for Teddy to help with his school supplies and tuition, and gave him three Sickles as pocket money every week. He felt that Sirius would approve, although not as much as he’d have approved of Andromeda giving all of Bellatrix’s money to supporting Muggleborns.    
  
He glanced worriedly at Ron through the bookshop window as he helped Teddy count the right amount, silently pleading with him not to do anything stupid if he didn’t spot Hermione. Back out on the cobbled street, he elbowed Ron amiably and adopted a breezy tone.    
  
“Where d’you want to go next? Anything you want to get?”   
  
“Hmm?” Ron said vaguely. “Oh … no, I think I’ll do it another … Harry!”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Look!”   
  
Harry was a few inches shorter, and had to crane his neck to see above the stream of shoppers. When he saw what Ron was talking about, he let out an audible sigh of relief: Hermione, unmistakable with her hair loose underneath her pointed hat, had just come out of the apothecary on the other side of the street, a package wrapped in brown paper tucked under her arm. She wound her pink scarf tighter around her neck and looked up and down the row of shops, apparently deliberating where to go next.    
  
“There you go!” Harry turned to Ron, feeling as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “She’s there! So you know she’s not lyi-”   
  
But Ron wasn’t listening. He was still staring straight ahead, and the colour that had flooded into his face when he first saw Hermione drained away just as suddenly. Quickly, dread pooling in his stomach, Harry followed his gaze.    
  
The man was tall and dark, wrapped in a heavy travelling cloak, the hood of which he lowered with one hand as he reached out the other to tap Hermione on the shoulder. She turned around, and they exchanged words, but Harry couldn’t hear what they were. His heart was thudding so loudly he would have struggled to hear them if they were right beside him. Then they hugged, and when they parted the man looked at Hermione with great affection. His profile was striking: a large, curved nose beneath thick eyebrows.    
  
“Harry,” Ron croaked. “Harry - it’s Krum!”   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me please!   
> If you're confused about the Prophet headline, ALL WILL BECOME CLEAR. :)


	16. Storms on the Horizon, Part Two

“Ron -”

Harry's voice sounded muffled to his own ears, like they had been stuffed with cotton wool. _There's an explanation,_ he repeated to himself, over and over, before he realised he was saying it out loud.

A large group of witches in even larger hats moved in front of them, and by the time they had passed Hermione and Krum had vanished from view. There was a numb, sick feeling creeping from the base of Harry's spine and filling his chest, spreading along his shoulders, and his face felt very hot despite the weather. He swallowed hard and faced Ron, expecting to see devastation, misery, or anger, but Ron just looked confused, which somehow was a hundred times worse, like he hadn't really thought it could be true and he didn't know what to do now it was.

His eyes were oddly blank as he looked at Harry. “Where have they gone?”

He might have been asking for the time.

“I -” _don't know,_ was the end of that sentence, but fate really wasn't on his side today, fate and the universe and whatever else felt like kicking him when he was down, because over Ron's shoulder the throng had thinned somewhat and out of the corner of his eye he saw a mane of bushy brown hair disappearing around a corner, which wouldn't have been so bad, perhaps, if that turning hadn't led to the residential part of Diagon Alley where buildings were converted into flats, and nothing else. Percy lived down there.

“I don't know,” Harry lied. “Look, let's go, let's - get a drink, sit down for a minute - come on, Teddy -”

He reached out to take Teddy's hand, but it wasn't there.

“Teddy?”

His godson was no longer standing beside him. He wasn't next to Ron, either, nor anywhere that Harry could see him as he spun on his heel, frantically straining to see up and down the alley. Time seemed to stand still and speed up, simultaneously; there were too many people, too many voices, and not one of them Teddy's -

He became conscious that Ron was talking to him, squeezing his arm, telling him not to panic. “We'll find him,” he was saying, and Harry recognised the Ron that had packed away his grief and devastation after the last battle and taken charge of steering his family through the horrible process of it all; Harry was grateful for it now, as he and Hermione and the other Weasleys had been then, but he also knew that it was a way of keeping the door closed on Ron's own feelings for as long as he could.

“I'll go down here - you look that way,” Ron ordered. He strode away quickly, cutting through the crowd with his long stride. Harry tried to push away images of Teddy being kidnapped, or worse, and set off in the opposite direction on legs that felt like lead, calling Teddy's name. People were looking at him oddly, though whether because they recognised him or because he was roaming the street shouting for a teddy or both, he didn’t know.  
  
How had he stood there while Teddy disappeared? Anything could have happened to him, there were all sorts of people who would see taking Harry’s godson as suitable revenge for killing Voldemort, or maybe locking up a loved one ...  
  
He must have looked quite mad, bursting into every shop he passed to stare wildly around before leaving just as swiftly once he’d seen no sign of Teddy. Of course, looking for a Metamorphmagus could be like looking for a needle in a haystack, but he didn’t think Teddy would have morphed, not unless he’d been forced to -  
  
“Harry! HARRY!”  
  
It was a woman’s voice that hailed him, and for a second he thought it was Hermione - he couldn’t think about her, not right now - but then he saw that the hand waving wildly over the heads of the other shoppers belonged to a fair-haired witch in a red knitted cap. His head was all over the place, tension throbbing in his temple, and it took him a moment to realise that it was Hannah Abbott.  
  
_"Harry_ \- oh, let me past!”  
  
She pushed her way through with surprising tenacity, and when Harry saw why she was so determined to get to him - and who was holding her other hand - he felt a rush of relief so powerful that his knees threatened to give way beneath him. He pulled his hat off so he could run a hand through his hair, which always helped to calm him down a bit. It must have worked, because when Hannah and Teddy reached him he managed not to burst into tears and clutch Teddy to him with no intention of ever letting go.  
  
“Where - what -”  
  
“I was just coming out of the florists and I saw him outside Eeylop’s on his own,” Hannah explained. Teddy hadn’t let go of her mittened hand, but he casually slipped his free hand into one of Harry’s as well, standing between them seeming thoroughly unfazed by his little adventure. “He looked a bit young to be on his own, and I thought I’d seen him before, with you in Hogsmeade, so I asked him if he was with anyone -”  
  
“And I said I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” Teddy interjected.  
  
Harry rolled his eyes despite the fact that his heart rate was still about five times faster than it ought to be. “Yes, but you’re also not supposed to wander off on your own without telling anyone.”  
  
“I _did_ tell you, I asked if I could go and look at the owls but you didn’t hear me.”  
  
“If I didn’t hear you, then I couldn’t say yes, could I?” Harry pointed out. “Just because I didn’t say no, doesn’t mean it’s OK for you to do it. I thought you’d been kidnapped!”  
  
He immediately regretted adding that last part, because Teddy’s lip wobbled a bit. Harry knew he hadn’t been deliberately naughty: he’d genuinely thought it wouldn’t be a problem.  
  
“But you’re safe, that’s all that matters,” he said a bit more gently. “Just - don’t do it again, OK? You have to make sure an adult always knows where you are.”  
  
This also slipped through Teddy’s seven year old logic net. “An adult did know where I was,” he said, frowning. “This lady did, and there were lots of other people as well.”  
  
It dawned on Harry that James would probably (definitely) be even worse, and that he likely had many more years of frustrating negotiations to come. “An adult who’s responsible for you,” he clarified. “The person you came with, like me or Ron today, or your gran normally. It’s just lucky that Hannah knew who you were.”  
  
“She didn’t say she knew who I was, she said are you here with someone and I said yes and she said do they know where you are and I said do you mean in Diagon Alley? And she said no, outside this shop on my own, and I said I didn’t think so and she said did you come with Harry, Harry Potter and I said yes but I didn’t know his middle name was Harry as well, mine’s Remus -”  
  
Harry pulled an apologetic face at Hannah, but she didn’t seem to mind Teddy’s recount. She smiled down at him kindly. “I knew your dad, did you know? He taught me at school. He was very nice, I really liked him.”  
  
Teddy’s eyes lit up, as they always did whenever either of his parents were mentioned. “Really? What were all the things he taught you? What do you do? I like your hat, did you knit it?”  
  
“We’d better go and let Ron know you’re OK, Ted,” Harry cut in hastily. To Hannah, he said fervently, “Thanks so much, thank goodness you were there -”  
  
Hannah smiled again, her pink cheeks dimpling. “It’s OK, really. It was lovely to meet you properly, Teddy!”  
  
Teddy responded by flinging his arms around her middle and giving her a bear hug; Hannah looked startled but pleased, so Harry didn’t bother explaining that Teddy typically used hugs as his preferred fashion of greeting and farewell. It sometimes threw people, like the Muggle postman he passed in the morning on the way to his primary school (he’d since got used to it) and - notably - his great-aunt, Narcissa Malfoy, who had worn such an expression of shock that Harry had wished he’d had a camera.  
  
They found Ron coming back up towards Flourish and Blotts. He grasped Teddy by the shoulders and told him sternly that he’d personally put a whoopie cushion on every seat Teddy ever sat on if he scared them like that again, which made Teddy giggle, but Harry could almost pinpoint precisely the moment Ron could hold off thinking about Hermione and Krum no longer. His suggestion that they have a quick drink in the Leaky Cauldron before calling it a day was met with a half-hearted shrug. When they got to the pub, though, Ron turned down Harry’s offer to get the drinks in.  
  
“Think I’ll just head off, actually,” he said.  
  
Harry hesitated.  
  
“You’ll - you won’t do anything daft, will you? Look, you still don’t definitely know, there could be another -”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” said Ron dully. “But with how she’s been acting lately … I dunno. I need to think.”  
  
“But what will you do when Hermione gets home?”  
  
“I’m not going home.” Ron pulled at a loose thread on his cloak and examined it briefly, twisting it around his fingertips. When he looked up at Harry again, his expression was blank, but Harry knew him well enough to recognise that he was holding back a dam of emotion. “Think I’ll go to Mum and Dad’s … I’ll tell them I’m coming down with something and Hermione can’t get ill right now, she’s got this stuff at work … she’s trying to get a draft bill through abolishing all these pro-pureblood laws, you know.” He blinked distractedly at Harry. “Did you know that if we had kids and we got divorced, I’d get full custody? She wouldn’t be allowed.”  
  
“Same for me and Ginny, I suppose,” said Harry awkwardly. “Listen, are you sure you’ll be all right? You’re welcome at ours -”  
  
Ron nodded vaguely, meaning that he had no intention whatsoever of accepting; Harry supposed he couldn’t blame him, really. “I’ll see you around, OK?” he said, and before Harry could say anything else he had ducked back out into the alley and there was a _crack_ as he Disapparated.  
  
“What’s the matter with Ron?” Teddy asked, tugging at Harry’s sleeve.  
  
“He, er, isn’t feeling very well.” Harry blinked tiredly, feeling about ten years older than he’d been when they arrived.  
  
“Are we going home now? What’s for dinner? Can I have chips?”  
  
“Yes,” said Harry, hoping that would do as a satisfactory response to all three questions.  
  
\---  
  
Hogsmeade woke on Sunday to yet more snow, meaning that James could not be made to sit down for breakfast and was instead allowed into the garden to play with Teddy (“ _T_ _eddy’s_ eating breakfast, look!” Ginny had said pointedly, but fruitlessly) on the condition that his pyjamas were exchanged for appropriate outdoor clothes. Teddy immediately threw himself flat on his back on the ground and showed James how to make snow angels; their yells of delight travelled through the French windows into the kitchen, where Harry and Ginny were both watching over their own breakfast. The owl delivering the Sunday papers arrived as Harry was buttering them each another piece of toast. Ginny yawned and shuffled over to the window to let it in, shivering in the sudden blast of icy air. Unfolding the newspaper, she came back to the table and scanned it, then stopped in her slipper-clad tracks.  
  
“Oho,” she said in an uncanny impersonation of Horace Slughorn.  
  
“D’you want marmalade?” asked Harry, not paying much attention.  
  
“No thanks, this is juicy enough,” Ginny said, a remark that didn’t make any sense to Harry until she plonked the newspaper face-up on the table in front of him.  
  
 _'DECEIT, DISHONOUR AND DOUBLE LIVES',_ the headline proclaimed, followed by, _'T_ _HE DUMBLEDORE'S ARMY REUNION YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO SEE'._  
  
“Oh, you’ve got to be joking …”  
  
The article splashed across the front page began with the words _Harry Potter’s life has always been mired in secrets and scandal_ , meaning that Harry didn’t need to see the byline to know who was behind this latest fabrication. He skimmed the text with increasing incredulity.  
  
“You might have told me,” said Ginny in a deeply hurt tone. “Here I was, at home with our sons, and you’re out gallivanting with your ex-lover and secret love child -”  
  
“Very funny,” said Harry drily. He scowled at the grainy photograph, which showed him saying something to a smiling Hannah, both of them holding the hand of a black-haired Teddy. He cursed himself for not having noticed the photographer.  
  
“She’s really done her research for this one. Listen: ‘ _Potter’s former paramour can be identified as Hannah Abbott, 25, a fellow member of Dumbledore’s Army. Old friends describe her as ‘a sweet, shy girl’ - a far cry from the woman Potter married, notoriously hot-tempered Ginny Weasley, who recently gave birth to Potter’s second child. No doubt she will be devastated to learn of her husband’s indiscretions, as experts place the child’s age at around seven years old - suggesting without any shadow of a doubt that Potter and Abbott’s tryst occurred while he was openly dating Weasley at Hogwarts. Furthermore, it is not known if the child, who is the spitting image of Potter, was the only result of their fling - or if it was in fact a fling. Potter and Abbott certainly looked very friendly yesterday as Abbott handed the boy over to his father for what is most likely a rare weekend visit._ _'"_  
  
Harry groaned. “Fantastic. Skeeter  _knows_ about Teddy, she knows this is codswallop!”  
  
“That’s never stopped her before,” said Ginny. She sat down and plucked a piece of toast from the plate he’d forgotten about. “Why was Teddy holding Hannah’s hand, anyway?” she asked around a mouthful.  
  
“Didn’t I tell you? He ran off, wanted to go and look at the owls, Hannah saw him and took him to find me … he said he did ask, but it was when me and Ron had just seen -”  
  
He broke off abruptly.  
  
“Seen what?” Ginny squinted at him. He tried to force his features into a neutral expression, but very little ever got past her, especially when it came to reading him. “Seen _what?”_  
  
“Hermione,” he admitted. “Ron said she’d been acting really weird the last few weeks, and he was worried -”  
  
“So you were spying on her?”  
  
Ginny’s face had darkened. Harry swallowed. He was aware how bad this sounded, and how bad it was. “Well - she’d told Ron she was going to Diagon Alley and he just wanted to check if she was really there -”  
  
“Where else would she be?” Ginny said, coldly.  
  
“Look, you didn’t see Ron, OK?” said Harry defensively. “He knew Hermione was hiding something from him, you know how insecure he is!”  
  
“So - what, he immediately assumed that she was _cheating_ on him?”  
  
“I didn’t think she could be, but that’s damn well what it looks like, yeah, since we saw her with Viktor Krum!”  
  
Ginny’s eyes widened. “ _Krum?_ Doing what?”  
  
“He came up to her and they hugged,” Harry said, “and then we lost sight of them, but I saw Hermione disappearing down the street where the flats are. I’m guessing Krum has a place there.”  
  
“Why would Krum have a flat in Diagon Alley? He lives in Bulgaria. He’s only in England this week to talk to the Falcons, they’re trying to poach him, and he’s staying in that posh hotel on Bond Street, there were pictures of fans waiting outside in the _Quidditch Insider._ ”  
  
Harry stared at her. “What?”  
  
“Didn’t it occur to you that she might have just bumped into him?” Ginny demanded. “She could have been going to see anyone - Percy - or Lavender Brown lives down there, they’re friendly these days -”  
  
That was a reasonable explanation, and one that Harry very much wanted to be true, but it didn’t explain Hermione’s strange behaviour, which he didn’t believe Ron had imagined. “OK, well, it’s great if she’s not cheating, but why’s she been acting so weird? Ron says she’s hardly spoken to him!”  
  
Had he not been an Auror, and had he not known Ginny as well as he did, he might have missed the almost imperceptible flicker of _something,_ some emotion that said she knew more than she wanted to let on.  
  
She could tell he had noticed.  
  
“Harry -”  
  
“You know?” he said disbelievingly. “Ron’s been going through hell -”  
  
“And that’s my fault, is it?” Ginny snapped.  
  
“I’m not saying that, I just can’t believe Hermione’s told you - whatever it is that’s going on, and you two have been happy keeping it a secret from Ron, it can’t be anything good -”  
  
“She didn’t tell me, I guessed, and _when_ did I say I was _happy_ about keeping it a secret?”  
  
“Well, you haven’t told Ron, despite the fact that he’s your brother -”  
  
Ginny shoved back her chair and scrambled to her feet, her face very red.  
  
“For your information, Hermione isn’t speaking to me now because I tried to convince her to tell him!” she told Harry angrily. “Do you think I’ve _liked_ hiding something from Ron? This isn’t about loyalty, it isn’t my place to tell, and believe it or not if you were in this situation I think you would have done the same thing!”  
  
“ _What_ situation?” Harry hurled back at her. “You know, I thought we were different to Ron and Hermione, I thought we were straight with each other -”  
  
“I wanted to tell you, of course I did, but that would put you in the same horrible position - except worse, because Ron was coming to you for help -”  
  
“That should have been up to me to decide!”  
  
“- and - well, I understand!” Ginny looked close to tears now, and despite his frustration and annoyance Harry felt horribly guilty for upsetting her. “I don’t think it’s right the way Hermione’s going about it, but I do understand, and - oh, don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think you could.”  
  
He looked straight at her, meeting her bright brown eyes that had gone from flashing with anger to shining with tears. She looked genuinely torn, and his own temper ebbed away as he held her gaze. Ginny rarely cried beyond real grief, and the only time he had seen her look this wretched was when she had found out she was pregnant and had to face the disruption of the career she loved for an event they had not planned to happen for years yet, and …  
  
_Oh_.  
  
The metaphorical penny dropped with a clatter in the quiet kitchen. “Something I wouldn’t understand properly, but you do,” Harry said quietly. “Hermione’s pregnant, isn’t she?”  
  
Ginny nodded wordlessly and dropped back into her chair, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her jumper.  
  
“I popped into Diagon Alley last week after training before I went to pick up the boys because I’d forgotten it was Alison’s birthday and I needed to get something, and I ran into Hermione. She didn’t seem at all pleased to see me - she tried to make an excuse to leave straight away - and then she suddenly looked like she was about to throw up, so … you know. Then when I asked her if she was pregnant, she burst into tears.  
  
“I made her come and sit down in that little cafe by Wiseacre’s and did _Muffliato_ and she told me she was really stressed out because she didn’t know if she wanted to have children yet. She’d planned to wait until she was at least thirty, because she’s only really just getting her foot in the door at the Ministry and there are some real arses in her office who’d love to get rid of her, they’d make a huge thing of her going off to have a baby. Plus she’d been to St Margaret’s to make sure and they said because of her medical history, with that curse Dolohov got her with, she was a riskier pregnancy and she’d have to take it easier than most and possibly go on bed rest nearer the end.” Ginny sighed heavily. “She hasn’t told Ron because she knew that would affect her decision - because he’d be really pleased, and then she’d feel like she had to keep it.”  
  
“Well - I mean, he isn’t just with her to have kids, is he?” Harry said slowly, trying to process this. “He loves her, he wouldn’t want her to be unhappy.”  
  
“That’s what I said, but … she said something about it being a lot of pressure, marrying into our family. I suppose she means with Mum being so …  _Mum_ , and getting really excited about grandkids and everything, she’s worried everyone would see it as a kind of failure to be a Weasley and get rid of a baby. Which is how I felt, kind of,” Ginny admitted. “Like actively not wanting a child, when we’ve seen so much loss especially, was a betrayal.”  
  
“Of course it’s not,” said Harry at once. “It’s your life! It’s a huge responsibility, it changes everything, and I’m sure your mum would get that, more than anyone else, probably.”  
  
“Maybe, but it’s still hard. I _did_ want our baby, I realised that, I just didn’t want to have to stop playing to do it. I was lucky in that I have been able to do both - and there’s no reason why Hermione can’t either, but she seemed really worried about having any time off at all. She said it’s already affecting her, with being sick and the hormones and all that.”  
  
“That’s fair enough,” Harry had to concede. “But Ron …”  
  
“I know,” Ginny said wearily. “Like I said, we ended up falling out because I said she wasn’t helping anyone by keeping it to herself, and I didn’t feel comfortable hiding it from my brother and you, and it wasn’t fair on Ron not to - well, I _do_ think it should be ultimately her choice, because it will affect her life more than Ron’s -”  
  
“- but she isn’t even giving him the chance to support her,” Harry finished. “Yeah, I agree. Because he would, wouldn’t he? I mean, if he said I’m not letting you get rid of it , then she’s well within her rights to tell him where to go, but I can’t believe she really thinks that will happen … it’s not like he’s desperate for kids.”  
  
“I think she’s worked herself up, and she’s not thinking straight,” said Ginny. “And the longer she keeps it to herself, the worse it’ll get - especially since Ron’s bound to notice at some point, she can’t hide it for too much longer, she looked sick as a dog when I saw her.”  
  
“Yeah, except it’ll be worse, because he’ll think it’s Krum’s,” Harry said darkly. At that, Ginny snorted and put her head in her hands, letting out a muffled groan.  
  
Outside, Teddy and James seemed to be finally feeling the cold, as they were trudging back towards the house, both sporting bright red noses and cheeks. Harry got up to let them in, then turned back to Ginny, hesitating.  
  
“Sorry I shouted at you,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I should’ve known you’d never … well. I’m sorry.”  
  
“Me too,” said Ginny ruefully. “I did hate keeping it from you. You’re right, we are different to Ron and Hermione, and I love that we’re normally open with each other. I think that’s partly why we work so well.”  
  
“Ron and Hermione work too, in their own way,” Harry said. He chewed his lip, thinking. “What do we do? Should we tell Ron? Or tell Hermione that I know?”  
  
“Let’s get the monsters in - Al will be awake in a minute, too - and we’ll talk about it later,” Ginny decided. She glanced down at the newspaper, still showing Rita’s article, and tossed it to Harry. “Shove that on the fire while you’re at it, I don’t need reminders of your secret love children everywhere.”  
  
“Surely you’re not suggesting I put Teddy on the fire?” Harry joked, absently scanning the rest of the front page to see if there was anything interesting. “Maybe we should get him to go blonde next, see if they try and claim I had a thing with …”  
  
“With who? Luna? Neville?” Ginny waved a hand in front of his face. “Hello! Earth to Harry?”  
  
“What? Oh,” Harry said, blinking. “Neville’s not really my type … have you seen this?”  
  
He showed her the small section of text at the bottom of the page, only a few paragraphs long. Ginny’s brow creased in confusion as she read it.  
  
“That can’t be -”  
  
“Of course it’s not,” said Harry grimly. “But I think I definitely need to talk to Hermione.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I didn't INTEND to end on another cliffhanger. It just ... happened.


	17. Monday-ed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh my God. This chapter has been a nightmare. I ended up just writing the most basic descriptions of scenes and telling myself I'd go back and edit them later but, having written nearly 4000 words in about, ooh, 6-7 hours? ... I ran out of steam and editing was minor to say the least. I did want to get all the Christmas stuff tied up in this chapter, but I thought people might prefer an update now rather than waiting for me to write ALL that. 
> 
> A note on this chapter - the way the Ministry works is different! It's explained in my post here https://glisseowrites.tumblr.com/post/183946193001/magical-government-in-the-uk, but for this chapter what you really need to know is that bills/legislation are made by Ministry employees, put forward by SENIOR employees, and voted on by the Legislative Assembly, which is made up of Councillors Elect - people who campaign to be elected by the wizarding public, similar to MPs in the UK, except they don't generally work in the government as well (though they can). That ... does not sound very clear, but I hope it makes sense ...

For what was possibly the hundredth time that morning - he’d lost count somewhere around the point a voice in his head had started screaming - Harry found himself brandishing a worn photograph at a pair of students, probably more aggressively than was necessary.  
  
“- look, see? Godson. Metamorphmagus. _Not my secret lovechild_. OK?”  
  
The two sixth years who had stopped him in the corridor to ask if yesterday’s article was true exchanged wary looks and silently went on their way. Harry exhaled, conscious that he ought to calm down a bit before rumours started spreading that he was mad as well as promiscuous, a word Ginny had used and that he sincerely hoped he’d never hear said about himself again.  
  
“Oh, hey, sir!”  
  
He’d barely got three paces down the corridor before he was hailed again. Harry felt quite like crying - he just wanted a cup of coffee, just one, before breaktime was over and he had to face another class asking him precisely how many illegitimate children he had.  
  
He couldn’t be too displeased at the sight of Gabriel Hutchinson in the midst of a small group of friends, though, not when it was a far cry from the boy who had slouched around by himself looking thoroughly miserable. _This_ Gabriel was bright-eyed as he caught up to Harry, his friends waiting for him a few feet away.  
  
“I just wanted to ask,” said Gabriel, “is that -”  
  
“No, it isn’t true,” Harry interrupted wearily. “I only have two children, both with my wife, and the _Prophet_ knows perfectly well that the kid I was with is my godson, see him here?”  
  
He showed the photo of Teddy to Gabriel, who looked confused.  
  
“I was going to ask if that test is this week or next,” he said.  
  
Harry could almost hear Ginny laughing at him.  
  
“Oh. Right. Er ... it’s this Friday.”  
  
“Is that - did that kid’s hair just change colour?”  
  
He was staring at the picture in Harry’s hand.  
  
“Teddy’s a Metamorphmagus - he can change his appearance at will,” Harry explained. “His mum was one, too. Really threw me the first time I saw her do it.”  
  
Gabriel’s eyes grew very wide. “Woah. Cool. Will he be coming here?”  
  
“Teddy? Yeah, he’s seven now, so - four years’ time.” Harry grinned at Gabriel. “You might be one of the prefects keeping him in line.”  
  
He was surprised by the reaction that comment got, which was a sort of disbelieving _pffft_ noise as if he’d just suggested Gabriel might have taken over from McGonagall four years from now. He frowned.  
  
“What?”  
  
Gabriel looked at his feet, dragging one back and forth across the floor and scuffing the tip of his shoe.  
  
“I’m not going to be a prefect, am I?” he muttered. “Not … well-behaved enough. Or good at school stuff.”  
  
“Aren’t you?” said Harry. “Last I heard, Professor Bloom’s had nothing but positive reports of you for the last month.” He waited until Gabriel looked up, then added gently, “Changing doesn’t have to be bad. You just have to make sure you change how you see yourself to match, as well.”  
  
It was funny, he thought, because to anyone who had known Gabriel at the start of the year, it was perfectly obvious that he had changed considerably - anyone except Gabriel himself, it seemed. Dumbledore probably would have had an answer for that, something like _the best of us is often clear to everyone but ourselves, Harry_.  
  
He left Gabriel looking dumbfounded and hastened off down the corridor, very conscious he was doing that sort of speed-walk people did when they were in a hurry and didn’t want to make a fool of themselves by running but which actually made them look more foolish. Breaktime was fifteen minutes long, but it might as well have been fifteen seconds for how quickly it disappeared. Generally, if Harry even made it to his study or the staffroom, the bell rang as soon as the kettle boiled and more often than not he ended up spilling most of his drink over himself rushing back to his classroom.  
  
The entrance hall was done up to the nines for Christmas, splendid garlands of lush greenery adorning the banisters of the marble staircase and the front doors; it was hard not to feel thoroughly festive even just passing through, and Harry thought he even heard the jingling of sleigh bells until he realised that the fourth year girl rushing past him had attached tiny silver bells to the ends of her plaits. It was almost enough to make anyone forget that their best friends were deep in crisis and a national newspaper had published a story about them having a torrid affair that most of their students and colleagues would have read.  
  
(Almost.)  
  
Neville was coming out of the staffroom as Harry reached the door, steaming flask in hand and cheery grin on face that didn’t _look_ like he was apoplectic about his girlfriend being splashed over the national newspapers with another man, but Harry thought he’d better offer an apology anyway.  
  
“Don’t be daft,” Neville said, waving a hand (unfortunately the one that was holding the flask; Harry dodged neatly out of the way to avoid being splattered). “We laughed when we saw it. Hannah had a bit of ragging from some of her regulars but she’s not fussed, they’re just having a laugh.”  
  
“Well, still, I’m sorry I -” Harry stopped as the implication of Neville’s words sank in. “You saw it together, eh? Sunday morning paper?”  
  
Neville flushed, but didn’t correct him. Harry grinned.  
  
“Must be going well, then?”  
  
“Let’s just say I get why you’ve got two kids already,” Neville said, turning even redder.   
  
“Anyway -" Harry thought it best to change the subject - "I feel bad about that stupid article, I know I hated seeing stuff about Ginny supposedly being with all these other blokes - let me buy you two a meal, will you? Anywhere you want -”  
  
“You don’t need to do that,” Neville protested. “How about a pint after school? Hannah’ll join us when she’s finished her shift. That’s fair.”  
  
“Well, if that’s what you - oh, damn.” Harry grimaced. “I can’t tonight, I’ve got to sort something out, is tomorrow all right?”  
  
Neville readily accepted, and Harry was grateful that he wasn’t prone to nosiness and therefore didn’t question what it was that Harry had to do. He didn’t really fancy getting into it, not when (despite Ginny’s assurances) he wasn’t even completely confident that it would work.  
  
\---

The side street in Westminster was as unimpressive as it had been the first time Harry had seen it; the pub seemed to have closed down, its windows boarded up, which was fortunate, because Harry hadn’t thought to change out of his robes. There was a bitter chill in the early evening gloom, and he pulled his cloak tighter around him as he slipped into the dilapidated old telephone box on the corner.  
  
The last time he’d been here, he recalled unwittingly as he dialled, was the night that Sirius had died. _Don’t think about that now .._.  
  
“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic.” It was the same female voice, cool and indifferent. “Please state your name and business.”  
  
“Harry Potter,” he said into the receiver. “I’m here to see the Minister on important business.”

He examined the silver visitor’s badge when it dropped into the coin slot. _Harry Potter_ , it said, and then, underneath, _"_ _Important” Business._  
  
“Were the quotation marks really necessary?” he asked the booth at large irritably.  
  
He received no response, but when the phone box had deposited him deep underneath London Slightly miffed, he stepped out into the atrium.  
  
Somewhere during the eight years he had worked at the Ministry he had stopped noticing the splendour of the place he returned to day after day, mind usually elsewhere and in desperate need of sleep; after a certain amount of time, you started taking things for granted, he supposed, and stopped appreciating the fact that he worked in a place the boy in the cupboard could only have dreamed of. Much of it was still the same: the gleaming cherry wood floor, the magnificent peacock-blue ceiling inset with golden runes …  the statue in the middle of the fountain, however, was once again different. Now a phoenix took pride of place in the centre of the long hall, its gilded wings spread as if taking flight. Engraved on the plinth below were the words _WE WILL REMEMBER._  
  
He tossed all the change in his pockets into the fountain as he passed.  
  
A number of Ministry workers - ducking out just before five - squinted at him, the familiar _‘is that …?’_ expression crossing their faces, but very little would keep them from making their escape; Ginny called it being ‘Monday-ed’, when your neck and shoulders were stiff, eyes and limbs heavy, the beginnings of a headache whispering at your temples. It occurred to Harry that he hadn’t felt nearly as Monday-ed since he’d left the Aurors.  
  
The security wizard on duty, who looked like he had a bigger case of the Mondays than anyone, brightened at the sight of him.  
  
“All right there, Mr Potter?”  
  
“Not bad, Steve, can’t complain,” said Harry easily. He’d always made a point of getting to know the people in the Ministry who tended to go unappreciated; they were often a lot nicer than those in the top jobs. “Getting a lot more sleep than I used to, and that’s with the baby, too.”  
  
“Don’t fancy coming back, then? Can’t say I blame you.” Steve was in his forties; he’d been at school with Harry’s parents, though had known little of them apart from observing that Harry’s mother was apparently ‘a right looker’. He had been at the Ministry since leaving Hogwarts and watched over it under five Ministers, which gave him a fair amount of wisdom about the place.  
  
“Our Belinda’ll be coming up to you in September,” he added. “Proper little bookworm she is, won’t have any trouble from her.”  
  
“That’s what I like to hear,” Harry grinned. He paused, then went on casually, “speaking of trouble, what’s this I heard about the Christmas trees going missing?”  
  
“Oh, ah. Mad, in’t it?” As Harry had predicted, he didn’t have to ask any further questions: Steve was more than happy to share what he knew without more prompting, clearly pleased that he had Harry’s attention. “Weren’t me on duty, it were the new lad, Malcolm. Anyway, I were taking over from him in t’morning, and I like to check everything’s sound, you know, so I go down to have a look round and straight away I see the trees are gone, right? So I come back here and I say to Malcolm, here, them trees have gone, and he looks at me like I’ve lost me marbles. It’s been dead all night, he says, not a soul there, and I check the register and it says last person tapped out at about nine, and he says well I checked everything round ten-ish and the trees was there then -”  
  
“Mystery, then,” said Harry, cutting into what he felt could be a very long story. He had forgotten how tricky it could be to wrap up a conversation with Steve. Making up some tale about an urgent appointment with the Minister, he finally extracted himself and headed down to the first floor. It was both startlingly familiar and remarkably alien; it struck Harry how quickly you could become accustomed to change. It was now hard to imagine a time when he had got into a lift at the Atrium every morning, instead of making the five minute walk up to Hogwarts. Several people clocked him in the lift, one or two greeting him and exchanging pleasantries, and he felt imbued with a strange sense of confidence in his capacity as a visitor, almost as if he was untouchable now; possibly because he felt like he’d moved onto something better. His badge might well have said _‘Ha ha, I’m happy!’_  
  
The long main corridor of the first floor was empty, though sounds of activity were audible beyond several of the doors leading off it. Harry had forgotten how magnificent the place was when you stopped to look at it: there was more gleaming wood, high ceilings and high arching windows, all the way down to the passage that let to the Minister’s offices. Through an archway at the end was a room with more highly polished wooden flooring and, behind a roll-topped desk, dictating to a quill while clattering away efficiently on a clunky typewriter, was Margot.  
  
Harry had always been slightly afraid of Kingsley’s secretary. He knew nothing about her except that - he assumed - she must have been a personal favourite of McGonagall’s at school. There was only one place she could have learned that steely gaze.  
  
Margot did not look up as Harry approached, but continued typing as she inquired coolly, “May I help you?”  
  
“Hi, Margot, how are you?” said Harry warmly, feigning an ease he didn’t feel at all. “I just need to see Kingsley about something -”  
  
“Do you have an appointment?”  
  
“You know what, I don’t,” Harry said apologetically. “But it’s quite important -”  
  
Margot finally looked up.  
  
“I am the Minister’s personal secretary, and I would not be a very competent one if I were to allow any unauthorised persons to wander into his office,” she said severely. “Especially when I have not yet ascertained your identity.”  
  
It wasn’t often that Harry was irritated by someone claiming _not_ to know who he was. “You know who I am,” he protested feebly.  
  
“I know who you _look_ like,” Margot corrected. “Let me see … what were the first words Harry Potter asked me on his first day of work?”  
  
Harry looked at his feet. “Iaskedyouwherethetoiletswere,” he mumbled.  
  
“I didn’t quite catch that,” said Margot.  
  
“I …” He felt himself redden. “I asked you where the toilets were.”  
  
It was some feat to hide his relief when Kingsley appeared in the doorway of his office. “Margot, when’s the - Harry!”  
  
He came forward to shake Harry’s hand, clapping him on the back as he released it. “What brings you here?”  
  
“It’s - complicated,” Harry allowed. Kingsley’s brow creased, but he gestured towards his office, indicating they should go in.  
  
“Sorry if Margot gave you a hard time,” he said, settling himself behind his desk. The room was rather grand, oak panelling and a vast window with a sweeping enchanted view of St. James’s park. “She quite enjoys it, I think.”  
  
“I suppose you can’t be too careful with Polyjuice and everything,” Harry conceded. Kingsley flashed him a broad grin.  
  
“No, you can’t, but did you notice that mirror behind you out there? It’s a prototype from your brother-in-law. Shows a person’s real image, no enchantments or disguises or anything. For me it just shows me without the earring, but that’s how I found out that Herbert Norgrove dyes his hair.”  
  
“Really?” said Harry, distracted. “What colour - hold on, you mean Margot didn’t need to check who I was?”  
  
“I think she’d argue she was just being thorough,” said Kingsley, still grinning, “but no. Anyway, what did you want to talk to me about?”  
  
“Oh, right …”  
  
Harry reached into his robes and withdrew the newspaper cutting. He unfolded it and passed it to Kingsley.  
  
“You didn’t happen to see the Prophet yesterday, did you?”  
  
“I was in Brussels this week for the EMU summit,” said Kingsley, frowning at the cutting. “I only got back this morning.” His dark eyes rapidly scanned the text. When he looked at Harry again, his expression was solemn.  
  
“Now, I don’t believe for a second that Hermione would do this, which makes me think, as I suspect you do too, that something more serious is at play here.”  
  
“I might be completely wrong, but - Hermione’s trying to put forward legislation revoking the pro-pureblood laws,” Harry explained. “And I spoke to Steve on security on my way in - he said that the bloke on duty that night didn’t see anyone do it. Yet now …”  
  
“‘Security guard Malcolm Baddock revealed that Ms. Granger was the last to leave on the night of this curious theft and was behaving strangely’,” Kingsley read aloud. “So he’s changed his story.”  
  
“Bribed, maybe,” said Harry. “The thing is, it’s hard to prove with the register, because it only logs when someone taps in or out with their ID pass. Theoretically someone could make themselves invisible, or cause a diversion, and just walk through. They wouldn’t set off the alarms if they had their pass on them. So even if Hermione were shown leaving earlier, it would be easy to say she’d done that.”  
  
For some reason, Kingsley was smiling.  
  
“It would be,” he corrected. “Fortunately, we do have a more reliable system in place. You see, it’s hard to fool something when you don’t know it exists.”  
  
The slim leather-bound book he withdrew from his desk looked like any other, seemingly unremarkable apart from the fact that it was unusually wide given its thickness. Then he opened it to the middle pages.  
  
Harry’s mouth fell open. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen anything like this before: it was that he _had_.  
  
The centre spread was an intricate floor plan of the Ministry, but that wasn’t all. Small black dots were scattered across the ink-drawn floors, each labelled with a name. There was _Stephen Entwistle_ at the security desk, and inside the miniature representation of the Minister’s office were _Harry Potter_ and _Kingsley Shacklebolt_.  
  
“But - this is -”  
  
“It was Hermione’s idea, actually,” said Kingsley. “I remember her asking Remus and Sirius about that map of Hogwarts when she was staying at Grimmauld Place - I suppose between what they told her and what she was able to work out herself, she managed to create this.”  
  
Harry briefly wondered if he would ever stop being amazed by Hermione’s brilliance. “That’s - incredible, but how does it help us? It only shows who’s here now.”  
  
“When would you say this happened?”  
  
“Er … sometime after ten, if that Malcolm bloke was telling the truth.”  
  
Kingsley, having closed the book, flipped it open to the centre again. This time Harry noticed a distinct difference: there was only one dot across the entirety of the building.  
  
“Wait, it can - is that who was there that night?” he asked, disbelievingly. He peered more closely; the single dot was still moving, not frozen in time, and as he looked he realised that a small illustration of a clock had appeared in the bottom corner of one page, the hands of which were also moving.  
  
“The Muggles have film surveillance,” said Kingsley. “Very useful when it comes to catching perpetrators of crimes, because their police can go and look at the images and see exactly what was happening at any specific moment. Obviously this isn’t quite the same, because we haven’t got an image …”  
  
“But it’s still good to be able to see who was here,” said Harry. “I suppose it isn’t fooled by Polyjuice or anything, either?”  
  
“No. Hermione was particularly insistent on this, when the Ministry was getting back on its feet.” Kingsley smiled wryly. “Understandably she was concerned about people breaking in, knowing, as you do, that it is more than possible.”  
  
“Well, that’s why it’s good to do illegal stuff sometimes,” said Harry, “‘cause then you know how to stop other people from doing it.”  
  
“Is that what you’re teaching your students?” said Kingsley, amused. “Perhaps it’s a good thing you left the Aurors.”  
  
Harry was about to respond with something flippant, but the words never left his mouth: his attention was diverted by the record he was still watching. “Look - here,” he said instead. The dot labelled _Malcolm Baddock_ had left the Atrium some minutes ago and travelled down to the main floors, where it moved along each one before progressing to the next one down. But that wasn’t what had caught Harry’s eye - it was the fact that as Malcolm left the first floor and began making his way back up, two more dots appeared in the Atrium.  
  
“Peter Boyd - he’s head of the Obliviator Squad!” Harry exclaimed, glancing up at Kingsley, who just raised his eyebrows. “And … Giles Merton … hey, isn’t he -?”  
  
Kingsley touched his wand to his throat. “Margot, could you get Hermione Granger down here, please?”  
  
“He’s Hermione’s boss!” said Harry angrily. “ _He’s_ framing her? What a complete tw-”  
  
“Harry, we don’t actually have proof of anything,” Kingsley reminded him. Harry usually found his unruffled manner calming, but now he felt a jolt of irritation that Kingsley wasn’t more bothered by this discovery. “We know he was there, that’s all -”  
  
“Well, I bet we can prove that they bribed Malcolm Baddock, and that they got the _Prophet_ to run the -”  
  
Kingsley held up a hand to stop him. “Yes, we probably could, but we won’t. Hear me out,” he added, when Harry made no effort to hide his annoyance. “I want to talk to Hermione first …”  
  
As if on cue, the door opened. It had been several weeks since Harry had actually seen Hermione up close, and even knowing what he did about her personal life at the moment, he was thrown by how drawn she looked.  
  
She clearly hadn’t been expecting to see him sitting in front of Kingsley’s desk, and it occurred to Harry that they ought to have given her some idea why she was being called in only a split second before fear flooded her face.  
  
“Is it Ron?” she gasped, swaying alarmingly on the spot. Harry leapt up to help her into the other chair, but she resisted, gripping his arm instead and forcing him to meet her anxious brown eyes. No one seeing her expression now, he thought, could doubt that she loved Ron; she was shaking like a leaf despite her fierce grip on his wrist. “ _Tell me_ , _Harry, what’s happened to him?”_  
  
“It’s not Ron!” he insisted, wincing as her fingernails dug into his skin. “I swear, it’s nothing to do with - ow, Hermione -”  
  
She released him with suspicion etched in the lines of her brow. “Then what is it?”  
  
“Sit down first,” said Harry quickly, and Hermione threw him another sceptical look, but dropped into the chair anyway. Whether she assumed Ginny would have told him about the pregnancy or not, he didn’t know. He didn’t think she’d appreciate him bringing it up in front of Kingsley, though.  
  
“Were you aware of this piece printed in the _Prophet_ yesterday, Hermione?” Kingsley asked, pushing the cutting across the desk to her. Something flickered across her face.  
  
“Oh,” she said, her tone offhand. “I suppose that’s what they were talking about.”  
  
“They?”  
  
Hermione didn’t reply. Harry had known her long enough to recognise that although she was schooling her features into impassivity, beneath that she was upset.  
  
“Why do you think someone would want to frame you for this?”  
  
“Not _someone_ ,” Harry interrupted, unable to help himself. “There’s pretty solid evidence that it was Giles Merton.” At this, he saw a definite trace of some emotion - anger? - disturb Hermione’s stolidity. That it wasn’t surprise rattled Harry even more. “What’s been going on, Hermione?” he demanded.  
  
She looked extremely reluctant, but heaved a sign. “Well - if you _must_ know,” she said, stiffly, “there isn’t an awful lot of support in the office for the bill I wrote. And I suppose people have made a joke of it because I keep trying to bring it up. Very silly things - oh, mustn’t let Hermione see you taking a break, you’re neglecting your duty of justice to the people! Which I never said,” she added indignantly, looking much more like her old self. “All I keep trying to tell them is that it isn’t _right_ to ignore the fact that these positively archaic laws are still in place, and there _will_ be people who are affected by them -”  
  
“You’ve asked Giles Merton to put your bill to the Assembly, I assume?” said Kingsley, scrawling something on a notepad.  
  
“Of course I have, and the first few times he said I needed to make a few amendments first, just change the wording here and there, but then lately he just says it isn’t the right time and the Assembly likely won’t pass it. Anyway, that’s when everyone started acting like I can’t talk about anything else, like I’m some sort of - social justice warrior - like that’s even a bad thing!” she finished, heatedly.  
  
“And the trees?”  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. “I might have said something about how it was a waste of time, that silly _decorating_ competition,” she allowed. “And then the stupid things disappeared, and straight away people were making jokes about how it must have been me. Well, I ignored them, but today they were saying that there was proof and how petty it was to ruin other people’s fun …”  
  
“They said this to your face?”  
  
“No, just when they know I can hear them. And there have been a few notes left on my desk.”  
  
Harry felt a flash of fury at the childishness of Hermione’s colleagues that was intensified when she rubbed her nose, a habit she’d picked up from Ron which meant she was much more troubled than she wanted to let on.  
  
Kingsley nodded and wrote something else down. “Do you think they’re trying to drive you out?” he asked matter-of-factly. Hermione gave a feeble shrug.  
  
“Not all of them … it’s never been all of them. But I do get the feeling they find me a - a nuisance.” Her voice quavered; Harry reached awkwardly across and squeezed her hand.  
  
Kingsley put his quill down, looking pensive.  
  
“I’ll be the first to admit that being Minister doesn’t give you nearly as much control as you would think,” he said. “I don’t appoint the heads of department; if you wanted Merton to be removed from his post, we would have to submit evidence to the Assembly and have them review it.”  
  
“I just want to get my bill through,” Hermione said stoutly. “I don’t care if he stays or goes.”  
  
Harry hesitated, marshalling his thoughts, and then said, “I might have an idea about that. Maybe!” he added hastily, as Hermione rounded on him with a look that usually prefaced a lot of questions fired at top speed. “I just need to think about it a bit more.”  
  
“But what -”  
  
“For my part,” Kingsley broke in - cutting off Hermione, to Harry’s relief - “I think I’ll send out a memo tomorrow morning stating that under no circumstances will any kind of bullying be tolerated. I can word it in a way that sends a subtle message to Giles Merton and his friends - indicating that I know what’s been going on. If it continues, you must tell me straight away,” he told Hermione sternly. “I’m not losing an excellent employee like you. And I’ll speak to Maintenance tonight, too … see about getting some decorations in place for the morning. I never liked that tree business, either.”  
  
Harry glanced at Hermione, and was pleased to see that some of the tension seemed to have gone from her face as she thanked Kingsley earnestly.  
  
“We’ll get this sorted, don’t you worry,” he assured her. “Now you two go on home - yes, you too, Hermione, and I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”  
  
Harry insisted on walking Hermione to her department to collect her things, suspecting that she would probably try and stay, even though there was hardly anyone else there now. The door to Giles Merton’s office was closed. As Harry predicted, Hermione sat down at her desk and began shifting through various documents spread across it. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that a photograph from her wedding was prominently displayed - a candid shot of their first dance, Ron attempting to twirl Hermione around and both of them laughing as they stumbled.  
  
“You go on, Harry, I just need to check something,” Hermione told him absently, already unscrewing her ink bottle. Harry didn’t budge.  
  
“Kingsley said to go home,” he reminded her.  
  
“I will, as soon as I’ve finished this -”  
  
“Really? ‘Cause I would have thought that maybe you didn’t really want to go home, if Ron’s not there.”  
  
The ink bottle slipped from her fingers; Harry snatched it from the air before it could shatter on the wooden floor. He felt slightly guilty - that had perhaps been too harsh - but he couldn’t stand back and let the two of them self-destruct any longer. To the ignorant observer, it might seem like Ron and Hermione had nothing in common, but they did, and stubbornness in spades was just one of those things.  
  
“Come home with me,” he suggested, more gently. “You look shattered, and I bet you’ve not eaten, either.”  
  
Hermione was silent. Taking that as a positive sign, Harry picked up her handbag and draped her coat over her shoulders. She didn’t resist, and when he held out his arm she got slowly to her feet and allowed him to lead her out.  
  
It was still snowing in Hogsmeade, but smoke was curling from Inglenook's chimney, light peeking invitingly from behind the curtains. Inside the house, they were immediately met with the sounds of several elephants diving into a swimming pool.  
  
“Bathtime,” Harry explained to a startled Hermione, who was even paler and clearly nauseated after Apparition. “Why don’t you go and sit down in the lounge, I’ll make us a tea.”  
  
He had already told Ginny that he intended on bringing Hermione back, hoping that the two of them could make up from their row as well. Knowing her as he did, though, and knowing that she was still smarting from the rift, he anticipated that she would linger upstairs for longer than was necessary after she’d put James to bed before making an appearance.  
  
When he returned to the lounge - almost tripping over one of James’s toy dragons in the doorway - he found Hermione curled in an armchair with her face tilted towards the blazing fire in the grate, fingertips outstretched as if trying to capture its warmth. With her heels neatly placed in the hall and her stockinged feet tucked underneath her, she looked a good deal younger.  
  
He handed her a steaming mug.  
  
“It’s ginger root,” he said. “Ginny said it helped with morning sickness.”  
  
As he’d made the tea he had been trying to think of a way into discussing the elephant in the room (as opposed to the one in the bath upstairs), and this seemed as good as any. Hermione blinked, but she looked resigned rather than angry.  
  
“She told you, then.”  
  
“I guessed,” Harry corrected her. “We had a row about what Ron and I saw in Diagon Alley on Saturday.”  
  
Hermione stared at him anxiously. “ _Ron_ was -? Did he see me in the apothecary? Does he know? Is that why he’s left? Oh God, he’s going to hate me …”  
  
“We saw you coming out of the apothecary,” said Harry. “And … we saw you with Krum.”  
  
“Krum?” she repeated blankly. It seemed to take a moment or two for comprehension to dawn. “Oh - yes, I bumped into Viktor …” Her eyebrows contracted. “Oh, Harry, please tell me you didn’t think -”  
  
“Look, Ron’s been really stressing about you acting weird!” Harry said heatedly. “He was worrying that you’d met someone else and were going to leave him! And then we see you hugging Krum and you disappear off to some flat -”  
  
“Yes, _Lavender’s_ flat, because I had made plans to see her!” Hermione cried; her eyes were shining with tears. “It’s - oh, it’s a long story, but she found out about me too, and she’s actually been really helpful - but how could you think I’d cheat on Ron? How could _he_ think that?”  
  
“I didn’t, not really, and Ron - it’s not about you, Hermione, it’s about him,” Harry said, trying to find the right words to explain. “I think … he sees it as logical that you would want to be with someone else, because he isn’t good enough for you …”  
  
“That’s ridiculous, of course he is, I don’t think that at all -”  
  
“No, but he does, a bit,” said Harry. “And when you were clearly hiding something from him, and seemed to be avoiding him, it made him really paranoid.”  
  
“Oh, God.” Hermione visibly drooped over the mug she was hugging to her chest; two worried brown eyes gazed out at Harry between tangles of her bushy hair. “I’ve really messed it up, haven’t I? Harry, what if he doesn’t come back?”  
  
“Did he leave a note or anything?”  
  
“Yes, it said he was coming down with something and he didn’t want to risk me getting ill too so he was going to his mum and dad’s. I knew there was something wrong there, but I’ve been so _awful_ lately that I couldn’t really blame him.” She wiped her eyes with her free hand, sniffing.”I don’t know what’s been wrong with me, I just - I feel so sick, and then really _angry_ , and I keep imagining Ron being really upset about not having a baby and I couldn’t keep it together and so I just had to avoid him otherwise he’d have known straight away -”  
  
“Hormones,” came Ginny’s voice from the doorway. “They’re a real pain in the bum.”  
  
Hermione looked up, hopeful, a tentative smile wavering on her lips.  
  
“Does it get better?”  
  
Ginny sat down, partly on the sofa but mostly on Harry. “Depends on what you want to hear,” she said, shrugging.  
  
Running a finger around the rim of her mug, Hermione took a while to answer, starting to say something several times before seeming to think better of it. When she eventually spoke, her expression was rueful. “I do want it, you know. The more I … the longer I’ve known, the more I’ve thought about it and I really _do_ want to have it. The time isn’t convenient, but what if I got rid of this one and then I couldn’t get pregnant again?” Her voice was wobbling again. “But then there’s my job … they’ll use it against me, I know they will, and I’ll have to go on leave, and it will change things, won’t it?”  
  
“Yes, it will,” said Ginny gently. “But not all those changes will be bad. Look, you don’t have to be one hundred percent in, or one hundred percent against it. I don’t think anyone ever is, because there’ll always be loads of reasons not to have a baby.”  
  
“And this _is_ you we’re talking about, Hermione,” said Harry. “I’ve never known anything to stand in your way when you set your mind on something. Why do you think those prats in your office want you out of the way?”  
  
Hermione smiled tremulously. “Maybe, but there’s that as well - I won’t get my bill through -”  
  
“Yes, you will,” Harry countered. “I told you I had an idea, didn’t I? Remember a few years ago, when loads of blokes were using _Flatus Ventus_ to blow women’s skirts up, and that one witch, Valerie Keating, started a campaign to make it a criminal offence? It got loads of attention and it was in the media and some celebrities backed it, like Celestina Warbeck, and someone in Magical Law Enforcement - I think it was Penelope Clearwater - made it into a bill, and it got passed.”  
  
“So you’re saying I should start a campaign?”  
  
“Of course!” Ginny slapped the arm of the sofa, making Harry jump. “It’ll get attention straight away because you’re famous, and we can get it on Lee Jordan’s show - oh, you could send a petition out -”  
  
“And I’ll be the - er, face of it, if you like,” said Harry.  
  
“Really? But you hate publicity -”  
  
Harry did hate publicity, but there were more important things - friendship, and doing what was right. “If it’ll make a difference, I’ll do it. The press will love the whole _my dead mother was Muggleborn_ angle. And I can make sure it’s covered in the _Prophet_ , too - I’ll tell Rita that if she doesn’t get her editor to print it on the front page, I’ll sue them for libel, because she outright stated that I had a secret lovechild.”  
  
“I can write up the statements for the media,” Ginny volunteered. " _And_ I’ll get the Harpies talking about it - they can mention it in interviews. It’ll spread really quickly.”  
  
“Chances are that someone else at the Ministry will pick it up and Merton won’t be able to keep it from the Assembly without looking like a proper git,” said Harry.  
  
“I - I don’t know what to say.” Hermione bit her lip, tears finally spilling over and rolling down her cheeks. “I can’t -”  
  
But what she couldn’t do, they never found out, because at that moment someone hammered loudly on the front door.  
  
“I’ve told Hagrid a hundred times to ring the doorbell,” Harry said exasperatedly, dislodging Ginny so he could get up. “I didn’t think he’d come round tonight, I said I needed to ask him about Secret Santa but I meant tomorrow ...”  
  
“Secret Santa?” Hermione asked curiously. Harry, going to answer the door, heard a wicked giggle as Ginny leant forwards to keenly fill Hermione in on his strife.  
  
_THUD THUD THUD_ -  
  
“All right, I’m coming!”  
  
Harry wrenched the door open and looked not, as he had expected, at Hagrid’s large middle, but straight into Ron’s pale face.  
  
“Is Hermione here?”  
  
“What - yes, but I thought -”  
  
Ron looked furious, livid crimson blotches flaring across his ears and neck, and for a horrible moment Harry thought he must have somehow found out that Hermione was pregnant and was taking it very, very badly.  
  
“Dad says they’re framing her for taking those stupid trees!” Ron said loudly, fists clenching at his sides. “It’ll be those bastards in her office, they’re trying to get rid of her! Let me in, Harry, I need to see her -”  
  
Harry, smiling - for what felt like the first time in a long, long while - wordlessly stood aside and let Ron barge past him. He followed him to the living room, where Hermione stared open-mouthed at Ron’s figure in the doorway, and over his shoulder, Ginny met Harry’s eyes; hers were wide.  
  
“I’ll give you two some privacy,” she said hastily. She closed the door behind Ron - Harry couldn’t hear anything, no immediate explosion, which he hoped was a good sign - and shot Harry a wide-eyed look.  
  
“Blimey.”  
  
“I know,” said Harry. He paused. “I hope they don’t kill each other.”  
  
“Or at least they don’t make a mess on the rug if they do.” Ginny frowned, peeved. “Did they have to take the lounge? I was comfy.”  
  
“We’d better go upstairs, we don’t want to eavesdrop,” Harry said, punctuating this with a pointed look at Ginny. She pulled a face, but reluctantly followed him up the stairs.  
  
There were some advantages to being forced to stay in the bedroom, as it turned out, and in the time Ron and Hermione were shut away downstairs Harry and Ginny made the best of a bad situation and engaged in a thorough session of reacquainting themselves with each other, interrupted only once by Al needing his nappy changed. After what might have been several hours and equally could have been only twenty minutes, Ginny sat up, wiping her mouth - which was red from Harry’s stubble - and suggested she go and check if they were finished yet.  
  
“If not, can we do that again?” said Harry hopefully.  
  
“All right, and if they are, we’ll just do it on the sofa,” Ginny grinned. She crept downstairs; Harry lingered on the landing, watching, as she silently opened the door an inch and peered inside. She was only there for a few seconds before she tiptoed hurriedly back upstairs.  
  
“It’s OK.”  
  
“How can you tell?”  
  
“They’re doing what Ron and Hermione do when they’re OK.”  
  
Harry frowned. “Arguing?”  
  
“The other thing,” said Ginny.


	18. The Long Drive Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably say this every chapter, but I really struggled with this one, everything I was writing just felt flat and hackneyed ... so I'll probably go back and edit at points when my muse comes back. I REALLY wanted to get Christmas out of the way, which isn't like me, but it's really hard being festive in June ...  
> Hope you enjoy :)

“Yes, it was very interesting, thank you." Luna, resplendent in her special holiday robes - they had baubles dangling from the sleeves and hem - smiled at Hannah, who had just asked about her recent trip to Eastern Europe. "Daddy thought I might come across a Pobbleswink, but they do tend to be rather shy, so I wasn’t really expecting to, although it would have been nice.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione open her mouth, but remarkably she closed it again after sharing an amused look with Ron. He'd had his arm clamped around her shoulders practically all evening, and Harry hadn't missed the protective hand Hermione had pressed to her belly when she declined his offer of coffee. When they'd arrived at the Potters' earlier they'd been in the midst of a squabble about baby names ("nothing pretentious," Ron had said loudly, over Hermione's firm, "No Chudley Cannons names!").

Harry never thought he’d be pleased to learn that they were snogging on his sofa, but their reconciliation was like a great weight off his shoulders and he felt lighter than he had done in weeks. It was the Christmas concert tomorrow, but instead of whittling about all that could go wrong he and Ginny had invited their friends round for dinner, and they’d spent a thoroughly enjoyable evening eating, drinking and laughing around the large kitchen table. Now the plates were cleared away, James had been put to bed three times and each time reappeared not ten minutes later (Ginny remarked that they should have called him Boomerang), Neville was bouncing Al on his knee, and it seemed like there could be nothing wrong at all in the world, not with Luna passing around photographs from her trip and Ginny’s trademark paper snowflakes hanging artfully in the windows and Hermione resting her head on Ron’s shoulder.   
  
Ginny, sitting to Harry’s right, looked up and gave him a beatific smile. He thought she was utterly beautiful in the candlelight, bright brown eyes merry, chin cupped in one hand as she examined Luna’s pictures. She nudged him with her elbow and slid one of the photos into his line of sight; he spluttered on his Butterbeer. It showed a woman that was definitely at least part Veela reclining in front of a window through which early morning sunlight was streaming, catching the silvery hair and pale skin - and there was a lot of skin on show, given that she was only clad in what looked like a bedsheet.   
  
“Crikey,” he muttered to Ginny, who giggled.   
  
“Well done Luna!”   
  
“Better not show Ron, his head’ll explode …”   
  
Ginny’s shoulders shook with laughter. Grinning, Harry reached across the table to pass the photographs back to Luna. “Great pictures,” he said. “Looks like you’d had a _really_ good time.”   
  
“Yes, it was rather enjoyable,” said Luna happily. “I expect I shall go again. I’ve told Neville he ought to come, I came across lots of fascinating plants.”   
  
“Maybe you should ask Luna to come in and talk to some of your classes, Nev,” Ginny suggested.   
  
“Er, maybe,” said Neville uncertainly. “I’d have to see what McGonagall said.”   
  
Harry had a feeling he, too, was recalling the memorable Quidditch match that Luna had commentated.   
  
“Concert tomorrow, isn’t it?” Ron said loudly, shooting Neville a _you’re welcome_ grin. “Got everything sorted?”   
  
It was, miraculously, pretty much sorted, and Harry was surprised to realise he’d actually enjoyed the process, despite much fretting about whether it would all work out. He was genuinely looking forward to tomorrow night, when it would all come together.   
  
\---   
  
“Gin, d’you know where my smart robes are? I could have sworn I left them on the chair in our room, I was going to iron them, but -”   
  
“Did you look properly?” Ginny gave him a look that clearly said she didn’t think he had, and also that he shouldn’t have waited until ten o’clock the night before the concert before ironing them. (That part was true, so Harry didn’t say anything.) She marched upstairs and returned a few minutes later, plonking the robes into his arms.   
  
“Told you. Right where you left them.”   
  
“What? They weren’t there, I looked -”   
  
“You _looked_. You didn’t check whether they might have got tangled up with something else, like …”   
  
She tossed another bundle at him. A silvery, silky bundle that felt like water slipping through his fingers.   
  
“Wait, what? That wouldn’t turn them invisible, it only works if you put it on -”   
  
“Apparently not,” said Ginny. “There’s loads of stuff on that chair, I sorted through it and felt the Cloak - it was wrapped around your robes, it must be if it’s covering something.” She grinned at him. “So there you go. They were under your nose the whole time.”   
  
“I s’pose I’ll have to be more careful with where I keep the Cloak, then,” said Harry, still bemused. “Well, at least I’m not going mad, I knew they were there -” 

When he was an Auror, one of his favourite parts of the job had been _The Moment_. When he’d been working on a case and some missing part of the puzzle, some vital connection, still eluded him, until something - often completely random or trivial - happened to trigger it in his brain and suddenly he _knew_.   
  
“You’ve figured something out, haven’t you?” Ginny knew his expressions as well as he knew hers. “Whatever it is, I reckon I should take the credit for this one.” 

\---  
  
\---   
It was the last day of term, and the castle was abuzz with last minute preparations for the concert, which would start at seven. Lessons would be finishing at morning break: those involved in the show were to have the rest of the day to rehearse, while the students who hadn’t been roped into helping were dispatched to their dormitories to pack for the holidays.   
  
Hogwarts didn’t often have visitors, and the desire to show the place at its best was palpable amongst both students and staff. Mr. Nesbitt the caretaker had scrubbed every surface until it shone, and had been seen the previous day chasing a suit of armour that refused to be polished; even the portraits were getting caught up in the excitement, primping themselves and checking their teeth in painted spoons. The only thing putting a dampener on the festivities was the empty places in the Great Hall where the twelve Christmas trees should have stood, but for the first time since they had vanished, even that didn’t wipe the smile from Harry’s face as he welcomed his seventh years for the last lesson of term.   
  
“Morning, everyone.” He rose from his usual seat on the desk, setting aside the heavy tome he’d been rifling through when they came in. “Exams are only a few weeks away now, and you’re about to have two weeks off, so I thought we’d do a comprehensive review of everything we’ve covered this term …”   
  
From the despairing looks on their faces he might have just told them he was cancelling Christmas entirely. Keith Leary, clearly anticipating an easy morning, was not-so-subtly casting around for a way to hide the fact that he obviously hadn’t brought his bag or any books with him.   
  
“Not cool, sir,” said Tim Chowdhry mournfully. “We thought you were different.”   
  
“And I thought you lot weren’t as gullible as the fifth years,” Harry said, grinning more widely as the heads that had drooped in despondency snapped back up. “Come on, am I really going to make you work on the last day of term?”   
  
His last words were met with jubilant cheers and the relieved sighs of those who had been weighed down with revision, revision and more revision for weeks. Harry felt momentarily very glad that he hadn’t actually done his NEWTs, though he wasn’t sure Horcrux hunting had been any less taxing.   
  
He sat back down on his desk, picking up a Remembrall someone had left on it and absently tossing it back and forth between his hands. “To be honest, I’m not really in the mood for teaching,” he told the class. “With the concert and everything, and trying to find out what happened to the Christmas trees …”   
  
He had flipped a switch: the mood in the classroom abruptly shifted. There was now a faint aura of anticipation, the low thrum of excitement that only accompanies that moment when a teacher steps over the threshold distinctly marking themselves as teacher and the students as students and indicates that they are about to divulge details about their personal life.   
  
“ _Did_ you find out what happened?” Iona McKenzie asked eagerly.   
  
“I did, yeah,” said Harry. “Pretty stupid, actually. I think it must have been one of the lower school kids playing around, ‘cause it wasn’t that clever.”   
  
He tossed the Remembrall higher, only flicking his eyes away to catch the class’s reaction to this comment. As he’d suspected, four faces looked distinctly peeved.   
  
“How did they get rid of them, then?” asked Callisto Jones curiously.   
  
“Well, they didn’t. Disillusionment Charm and a simple _Wingardium Leviosa_. They were still there all the time - but nobody thought to check that.”   
  
Harry’s theory had been confirmed only ten minutes earlier, when he’d snuck into the Great Hall before between his morning lessons and cast _Finite Incantatum_ . The trees had reappeared, hovering high above the tables, and floated gently back down to the ground. When the students went in for lunch, they’d find them magically - literally - restored to their places.   
  
“Would any of the younger kids know how to do a Disillusionment Charm?” said Tim. “I mean, it isn’t even on the NEWT syllabus.”   
  
Harry grinned at him. “That’s a good point, Tim,” he said. “I thought that myself. Which is why I knew it had to be someone capable of advanced magic. That doesn’t narrow it down much, but I thought, who likes playing tricks on people? And I immediately thought of four people … now, I couldn’t prove it, but I reckoned they’d take a lot of pride in their ability and feel quite pleased with themselves for pulling it off. So they’d probably be quite annoyed if someone were to assume it was just a younger student mucking around.”   
  
He looked from each face - all determinedly maintaining neutral expressions - in turn. Callisto, Caspian, Perdita and Tim. “I’ve had enough of those four,” Bernice had said crossly, when he’d told her of his suspicions earlier that morning. “They need to learn to think about people other than themselves - I think everyone ought to know they were responsible.”   
  
McGonagall had agreed. “It won’t do them any harm to have their peers displeased with them for a while,” she advised. “That’s almost punishment enough for egos that size. That said, I would like to issue another punishment … send them to me afterwards, won’t you?”   
  
Now, in the classroom, the rest of the seventh years were looking confused; Harry saw realisation slowly dawn as they clocked that he was addressing some of their own.   
  
“ _You_ stole the trees?” Iona yelped, rounding angrily on Callisto, sitting next to her. “You pigs!”   
  
“That’s a crummy thing to do,” said Aneurin Pendry, shaking his head.   
  
The accused four sat mutely, evidently unused to backlash from their classmates. Harry could well imagine how it had happened: they were clever, very clever, and they liked venturing outside the bounds of the curriculum. He could just see them coming across the Disillusionment Charm - Callisto wanted to be an Auror, after all - and wondering what mischief they could cause … after all, they weren’t doing anything serious, they could hardly be punished harshly if they were caught - there were no consequences.   
  
From their faces, Harry guessed that they were now realising that wasn’t the case.   
  
He looked at them and said, simply, “Professor McGonagall would like a word with you now, if you wouldn’t mind popping along to her office.”   
  
To a backdrop of hissed invectives and grievances from the others, Callisto, Perdita, Tim and Caspian silently gathered their things and got up. Before they were out of the door, Harry turned back to the class and announced brightly that since he hadn’t done a lesson plan, he wanted them to tell him all about their plans for Christmas.   
  
“What are _you_ doing for Christmas, sir?” asked Nesta.   
  
“Ahh, a Weasley Christmas,” said Harry reflectively. “Well, my mother-in-law starts knitting in January …”   
  
\---   
  
He had only come up to his office to collect any essentials he’d need for the holidays (though he could always pop in if he forgot anything), but the cardboard box plonked squarely on his desk drove all thoughts of that from his mind, especially when he sat down and examined its contents.   
  
The photographs didn’t seem to be in any order; there were haphazard piles bound with rubber bands, but all had a date and description neatly printed on the back. _Last day of school, June 1972. Me and Griselda, Oct. 1974._ One dimly lit picture showed a group of girls on the floor of their dormitory, a birthday cake with flaming candles in their midst, and was labelled _Lily’s birthday, Jan. 1976._ Dozens and dozens of photographs, each containing some little unforeseen treasure.   
  
His Secret Santa giftee hadn’t signed their name, but they didn’t need to. There was only one person who could have given Harry this, the most perfect of presents. He lingered especially over a picture of a smiling couple, dressed in Muggle clothes, captioned exuberantly: _June and Raymond!! Lily’s house, August 1975_. Harry’s grandparents.   
  
The occasional Muggle picture appeared among the moving ones; perhaps it was because he was so used to wizard photographs now, but something about those pictures in particular made Harry’s heart skip a beat. He stared for a long time at a shot of his mother, caught in some exaggerated pose with her hands on her hips, clearly messing around for the camera. The way wizard photographs moved, Harry realised, made it seem like the subjects were living, even if they weren’t … This image of his mother, frozen in time, was just a snapshot of a moment she’d lived, but it was long gone now, and so was she.   
  
It took a while for him to pull himself together enough to go and find Bernice. ‘Thank you’ didn’t seem adequate to express his gratitude, but he said it anyway.   
  
“I thought you might have your own albums,” she said, tactfully ignoring the wobble in his voice.   
  
“D’you think you could you tell me a bit about my grandparents, sometime?”   
  
She smiled and nodded and suggested he come over to her house in the holidays, where they could have a proper chat.   
  
“Bit of a cop out, really,” she said as he was on his way out. “It didn’t cost me anything.”   
  
But he was sure she knew that it was worth more to him than anything she could have bought.   
  
\---   
  
The sound of thunderous applause in the cavernous hall was still ringing in Harry’s ears fifteen minutes after it had stopped, the audience now milling around below the stage mingling with the staff and students. He kept being accosted by pupils who wanted to introduce him to their parents; some had looked star-struck, but mostly they had shaken his hand warmly and asked how he was finding teaching, or commented on the positive things they’d heard about him from their children. Coupled with how well the show had gone - and it had gone remarkably smoothly, a few minor hiccups aside - Harry now felt as if he were floating around the hall like the ghosts that had come to watch the concert, buoyed by sheer happiness.   
  
It wasn’t just parents that had come: Professors Flitwick and Sprout were talking to McGonagall; Wilkie Twycross, who still taught Apparation, was there (just about), and Harry thought he even spotted Aberforth Dumbledore sitting at the back, though he had gone before Harry could reach him. Ginny materialised at his side just as he was looking around for her, having exhausted his social limit with parents; she slipped her hand in his and squeezed gently as she politely extracted him from Nina Bhatt’s parents, who were interrogating him about their daughter’s progress.   
  
“OK, which is worse - rabid fans or competitive parents?” she asked, towing him through the throng towards the refreshments table that had been set up at the back.   
  
“Competitive parents, probably - at least the fans are only bothering me. I really feel for the kids who have all that pressure piled -”   
  
_"Harry, m’boy!"_

Harry stiffened.   
  
“Is it just me,” he muttered to Ginny, “or did that sound like …?”   
  
“Well, well!” Slughorn hadn’t changed much since Harry had last seen him, although he seemed to have been enjoying his second retirement greatly judging by the strain his waistcoat buttons were under. He seized Harry’s hand and pumped it vigorously, then advanced towards Ginny, who smartly took a step backwards and gave him a smile that suggested he should keep a respectable distance.   
  
“Got tired of the action, did you?” Recovering impressively quickly from the awkward moment, Slughorn beamed at Harry. “Well, it’s not a bad career move - lots of connections to be made through teaching, very useful position to be in … I’m sure you’ll have found that already … no need to tell me! I know you oughtn’t have favourites!” He winked exaggeratedly.   
  
“Oh, yeah - actually, I was thinking of starting my own club,” said Harry. “The Pot Club. Got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”   
  
Ginny snorted. Slughorn blinked, clearly suspecting that Harry was taking the mickey but not sure if he dared react badly. He plumped for waving at an imaginary friend some feet away, said, “must dash!”, and vanished remarkably swiftly given his girth.   
  
“You know, the Pot Club would probably be dead popular with some of the older kids,” said Ginny, not spotting Professor McGonagall, who was standing very nearby.   
  
“Perhaps,” she agreed drily, making Ginny jump - it was Harry’s turn to snort with laughter - “but not so popular with the parents, I suspect, so I think we shall leave that one for now.” She turned to Harry. “Well, that was rather successful, wasn’t it? I appreciate the time you put in.”   
  
“I enjoyed it,” Harry told her truthfully. “We should have set up an orchestra sooner, it’s really good.”   
  
McGonagall shot him a severe look, but he could see her lips twitching into something like a smile.   
  
“And I must also thank you for the gift. Very thoughtful.”   
  
“Oh, it was - wait. How did you …?”   
  
He’d asked one of the house elves to put his Secret Santa present in McGonagall’s office, avoiding the need to label it in his (distinctively untidy, he was sure) handwriting. He was pretty pleased with his choice. Hagrid had told him that McGonagall was very partial to whisky, but tended to be frugal with her money and rarely splashed out on anything nice. Her husband had given her an expensive bottle on their first wedding anniversary, Hagrid recalled.   
  
“I didn’t know she was married,” Harry said, startled, but Hagrid had looked sad and said she liked to keep her business private, and so Harry hadn’t asked any more questions. Instead, he’d busied himself researching whisky breweries, which had led him to the Isle of Skye and a small wizard-run brewery producing - according to those in the know - the finest single malt gold could buy.   
  
It wasn’t under a Galleon, but he sort of felt like she deserved it.   
  
McGonagall did smile now, properly.   
  
“Rather impolite to receive a gift and not thank the person who gave it to you, don’t you think?”   
  
“But how do you -”   
  
“I notice you were on your way to the refreshments table,” McGonagall said. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind bringing me a glass of pumpkin juice?”   
  
In other words _\- let it go._ Harry grinned. “No problem.”   
  
When he returned, she and Ginny were deep in conversation about Quidditch.   
  
“... don’t stand a chance, but they’re playing Puddlemere in January -”   
  
“Have you told her your news?” Harry asked Ginny, looping an arm around her shoulders. She reddened slightly, but looked pleased.   
  
“It’s strictly hush-hush for now, but - I’m back on the Harpies.”   
  
McGonagall was very fond of Ginny (more than she knew), and had followed her Quidditch career with great pride, which showed on her face now.   
  
“I’m very glad to hear it, they’ve suffered without you. I shall make sure I get a ticket for your first match.”   
  
“Oh, you can sit in the box with Harry,” said Ginny easily. “He’ll be there, won’t you, Harry?”   
  
“With bells on,” he confirmed.   
  
They decided to call it a night half an hour later, both of them flagging and aware that they ought to relieve Arthur, who was babysitting. Harry was the one blushing when McGonagall told him she was pleased with how his first term had gone - “a little eventful, perhaps” - and wished him a happy Christmas; then they were out in the freezing night, the castle lights shimmering high above, snow crunching loudly underfoot in the darkness. Harry held Ginny’s hand tightly in his, just the two of them beneath a great velvet sky strewn with stars, and felt like the luckiest person in the world.   
  
Arthur was in the lounge, the wireless on low, nodding off over a magazine that seemed to be called _Batteries International._ His head jerked up when Harry and Ginny came in.   
  
“Ah! You’re back! How did it go?”   
  
“It was amazing,” said Ginny, straight-faced, “although Harry didn’t have a solo, which would have really -”   
  
“OK, you know what? I’m going to stop singing in the shower if you keep being mean.”   
  
“- brought the house down - well, shattered the windows, anyway -”   
  
“I’m taking your Christmas present back.”   
  
“Was it a record of you singing?”   
  
Arthur looked on, amused.   
  
“Oh!” he exclaimed suddenly. “I caught James smuggling post in his trousers, I’m afraid - I don’t know what he was planning to do with it - here -”   
  
He reached for a small pile of envelopes lying on the coffee table, looking oddly excited. The reason for that became clear when he added, “One has a _stamp_ on it!”   
  
Sure enough, amongst the few parchment envelopes - bills, a letter from Ginny’s insurance provider, Harry’s monthly earnings statement - there was a thick, cream-coloured one, addressed to just Harry. He tore it open; it was an expensive-looking invitation, with embossed gold swirls and fancy lettering.   
  
                                 _You are cordially invited to celebrate the marriage of_ _  
_ _DUDLEY DURSLEY_ _  
_ _And_ _  
_ _LOUISE DE VERE_ _  
_ _Saturday, 25th February 2006_ _  
_ _Two o’clock  
_ _Smedmore House, Kimmerbridge, Dorset_ _  
_ _Reception to follow_ _  
_ _  
_ Harry had to read it twice before it fully sunk in. “Blimey,” he said, faintly. “Dudley’s getting married.”   
  
“Your cousin?” Ginny stood on tip-toe to read over his shoulder. “Louise de Vere … ooh, she sounds dead posh.”   
  
“A Muggle wedding!” said Arthur, clasping his hands together in glee. “How marvellous! It’s a shame you’ll probably have a match, Ginny - still, I expect Harry will want to go, and it’s always nice to have company -”   
  
“Harry doesn’t want to take you as his date, Dad,” said Ginny firmly.   
  
“I’d  _want_ to,” Harry said, trying to be diplomatic, “it’s just - well, people don’t really take their in-laws to weddings and I wouldn’t be able to explain why …”   
  
“Ah. Well, no. I quite understand.” Arthur forced a breezy smile. “I’m sure there will be - well, not that it matters - anyway, I had best be getting back - we’ll see you on Sunday, of course -”   
  
When he’d gone, Ginny shook her head in exasperation.   
  
“Honestly. Can you imagine?”   
  
“Vividly,” said Harry. He looked at her. “If you don’t have a match, would you - I mean, you don’t have to -”   
  
“Go? Definitely!” He wanted to read her response as nothing more than ‘supportive wife’, but there was a gleam in her eyes that said otherwise. “I’d love to meet your cousin.”   
  
“And my aunt and uncle, too,” Harry reminded her.   
  
“Oh, yes. Even better. I’ve  _lots_ to say to them.”   
  
\---   
  
The journey back to King’s Cross was very different to Gabe’s first trip on the Hogwarts Express, all those weeks ago. For one thing, last time no prefects had come in to the compartment to tell them to keep the noise down. It had got fairly rowdy, especially once Maddie had produced a bag of sweets and started a game of Exploding Snap with Naomi; Gabe hadn’t really expected her to join them, but she’d looked upset when she came in, so he didn’t ask. Safia, who’d brought two other Slytherins, Emery Gamble and Georgina Borage, with her, was attempting to teach Gabe how to play wizard chess. It wasn’t going very well - he didn’t know how to play normal chess, and Oliver’s helpful suggestions were only confusing him further.   
  
“Do wizards have Ludo?” he asked.   
  
It was dark by the time the train started to slow, because it was four o’clock and winter was stupid. Gabe was feeling weirdly jittery at the idea of seeing his mum again; excited, but it was strange, going back home, when he’d been basically a different person the last time he was there. Now he was a wizard. Well, technically he supposed he’d always been a wizard. Still, it was weird, and his heart was pounding as they were ushered off the train. He found himself being hugged by Maddie - “Have a good Christmas! Did you get me a present?” - and said normal goodbyes to the others, watching them meet up with their families … he couldn’t see his mum yet …   
  
He turned slowly on the spot, dragging his trunk, and his eyes fell on a small, neat figure in a dark coat. He could see the dark blue nurse’s uniform beneath it, and just that familiar sight made him want to cry like a baby.   
  
“Mum!”   
  
He didn’t care that it wasn’t cool to run to your mum and fling yourself into her arms when you were eleven and went to secondary school. He did it anyway.   
  
“Oh, poppet.” Mum squeezed him tightly; he breathed in her scent, never more aware of how much he’d missed her than now she was hugging him.   
  
She’d had to borrow Gran’s car to come and get him, as well as changing her shift and driving the long distance from Stoke-on-Trent to London, which did make Gabe feel bad, but he was ridiculously pleased to see her. In the car - Mum swearing under her breath as she reversed out of the car park - he settled into his seat and looked at her dimly lit profile. She looked tired, as always.   
  
“Where’s Ruby?”   
  
“She’s having a sleepover at Beth’s. I thought it would be nice if it was just the two of us tonight,” said Mum, fiddling with the heater with the hand that wasn’t on the steering wheel. “I want to hear all about it! We can get Chinese, if you like.”   
  
She swore again and told him to watch out for signs for the M1. A faint blast of warm air filtered through the vent, making it seem like bitterly cold London was light years away and they were in their own little bubble in the dark car, just following the lights on the long drive home.   
  
“So, tell me everything!” Mum glanced at him, smiling. “What are your teachers like?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is actually a magazine called Batteries International, in case anyone was wondering.  
> If anyone's thinking 'why didn't Harry just summon his robes?', he didn't think of it. (Neither did I.)  
> Next chapter!! James goes to nursery, Gabe makes a new friend and we meet a future Weasley ...


End file.
